


All's Fair in Love and War

by Disturbot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Electrocution, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, From Sex to Love, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Sherlock, Kidnapping, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Games, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, Poor John, Post-Reichenbach, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Torture, Trauma, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-02 07:43:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15792099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disturbot/pseuds/Disturbot
Summary: John is a lonely, broken soul when he is kidnapped. He's surprised, mostly. Who would want to bother with him now that Sherlock is dead?





	1. Something Wicked This Way Comes

 

Life had flatlined on a bloody sidewalk. It made it easy to walk, even with an occasional limp, but it also made it so incredibly dreary. He had to walk it all the same: he had to eat, he had to work… well, that was about it, actually. He’d given up on any sort of social life and it had given up on him in return. He imagined he exuded this aura of quiet desperation around him that made people flee. The loss should alarm him, or at the very least make him angry at his acquaintances for being so easily cowed, but it gave him a peaceful bubble of tranquility he could bask in and try to forget. His only peace, because at night came the nightmares, so he didn’t sleep much.

He was no one. He had no one. Which is why he was surprised someone was bothering to capture him with a good old fashioned kidnapping. All proper with a van, muscles and balaclavas. It reminded him of the good old time. His kidnappers, on the other hand, seemed a bit disturbed when their target didn’t put up a fight, didn’t even try to run, and was smiling instead as he asked them for a hand up into the van because of his leg. John had learned long ago that resistance was futile in these unfortunate events and only lead to extra-pain before the real deal. He wasn’t stupid, this hooded team was too well prepared and he couldn’t run far to evade them, so he might as well be polite about it.

By the time he was lead into a nondescript little building in London somewhere, his kidnappers were holding the doors open for him and looking apologetic through their hoods. At the end of the journey, they took his coat like he was a guest and he was left alone in a room that didn’t bode well: it was mostly empty but for a professional massage chair, a normal one, and a telly screen.

Could be kinky. Could be dangerous. Could even be bloody Mycroft.

Either could be true when he spied the red light of a camera bolted into one corner of the room. He was being watched.

A blip was recorded on Life’s heart monitor.

Unsure of what to expect, John walked up to the screen, searching for a play button or something but it was as black as night and stayed that way up to the moment the door behind him opened with an ominous creak. He could see a small silhouette reflected in the monitor, and then a second, much larger, who stepped in and closed the door behind them. His heart was pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins, firing up all the nerves in his body and freezing him in place. He was alive again.

Upon hearing a polite cough behind him, John hummed in answer, unable to do more as he enjoyed the thrum of his body waking up from a long slumber.

“Any time now, Johnny boy.”

Forget flatlining, his shrivelled little heart exploded right where it hung in his chest. It was impossible and he wasn’t using that term lightly.

“Impossible,” he breathed out, trying to convince himself and hoping he would be proved wrong as he turned ever so slowly around on his axis.

But there he was, looking as deranged in his expensive suit as he’d ever been before. Except for the distinctive lack of a bullet hole in his head. How the hell had he pulled _that_ off?

“Impossible is my middle name, but so is trouble, and boy, are you in a world of trouble, Dr Watson.”

John shivered. Death had not changed Moriarty one bit. He was still as mad as a hatter and more dangerous than the rest of all the kingdom’s criminals put together. Not to mention so smart John might as well be brain dead in comparison.

In short, he was screwed.

“Why don't you sit down?” Moriarty asked, all saccharine sweet, but his smile that of a shark.

John turned to look at the strange chair next to him. If he sat in that thing, he'd be as vulnerable as a newborn babe, presenting his defenseless back and his head stuck in a hole.

“Ah. I'd rather not.”

Moriarty snapped his fingers and his hulking friend took a step forward. True to his philosophy of treading the pathway of least resistance, John complied. That mountain of a man would have bent him out of whack like a ruddy Rubik’s cube trying to drape him around the weird chair if he resisted, and since there was still no escape route in sight, John was simply being smart about this. Knowing the criminal mastermind, there would be pain enough to come without adding some on his own.

Speaking of the devil, maybe literally, he was humming thoughtfully as he had approached  his… face-hole? That sounded wrong on a whole other level. All John could see of the man now were his shiny leather shoes, and the screen if he strained his eyes upwards. He had to admit his chair was comfortable. It was, after all, a chair meant to relax and receive a massage, but it was only as comfortable as its environment, and Moriarty’s impatient foot trapping made it very clear he was not here to waste his time on his well being.

“Now what?” John snarked, then mentally cursed his big mouth. It was a reflex, okay? His own way of coping. Because this was not good. Not good at all.

“Oh, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. You'd better learn to control that wicked tongue of yours, and fast, before I sew your mouth shut. And don't even hope for someone to come to the rescue in time, because we both know there's no one who will even notice you gone until your body washes up on the banks of the Thames.”

 _Stating the obvious,_ his mind supplied but John didn't voice it out loud this time. He was actually a fast learner, for a normal person, but could never hope to catch up to a genius’ level of thinking. It didn’t stop him from flinching when his minion started tying his hands, legs and head to the chair with good old fashioned climbing rope.

“But I'm feeling magnanimous,” Moriarty continued and John bit his bottom lip to hold back a snort. “Because you're bait for a special someone, so I'm keeping you to send a message. And have a little bit of fun.”

John groaned at the idea of fun for someone like Moriarty since it usually involved blowing people up, but he was raking his mind for who that special someone could be. He knew no one important, rich or powerful, so what was he on about? Unbidden, the image of Mycroft came to mind, but it was a ridiculous idea. John hadn't seen the heartless bastard for over a year and he doubted he'd care his brother's former flatmate was dancing on a hook in front of his nose. Bait, indeed.

“You still don't know? You don't suspect? Or are you that good of a liar?”

John shook his head but realized it was near impossible in his position and bit out a curt no.

“Sherlock, silly!” he said with such glee he sounded even madder than usual.

“He's dead,” John replied flatly.

It had been easier to say after a while. Therapy had been useful for something.

“No, he's not. He's playing hide and seek, and being a general pain in my ass. I will make him come to me and I will make him stop ticking, for good this time.”

“He's dead,” John insisted, louder this time.

Sherlock wouldn't have done that to him, he wouldn't have left him to grieve for him for over a year without a word, without a sign that he was still out there somewhere. He wouldn't have left him to fend for himself, without hope. And above all those certainties flooding his mind, John couldn't believe he would be hurt here today for no good reason at all, because what Moriarty had planned was pointless, completely and utterly pointless.

“Unless you intend to resurrect the dead by sacrificing me on the altar, this isn't going to work.”

Moriarty laughed and the sound was as terrifying as his threats.

“Tempting, but no. Where would be the fun in that?”

“Fun?”

“For me of course.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so reticent to believe Sherlock is alive. I mean… look at me. Wouldn’t you have bet everything ten minutes ago that I was dead too? I thought you were more open-minded that that, Dr Watson. You did after all live with Sherlock for a while.”

“He’s dead,” John repeated. “He’s dead, dead, dead!”

Moriarty flicked him in the forehead, snapping him out of it immediately.

“Who are you trying to convince? Me? Or yourself? If you’re so sure Sherlock is dead, what are you willing to bet? An eye? Your hand?” he chuckled darkly. “Your life?”

John scoffed, refusing to play his game.

“No? So you _do_ have doubts. Good boy,” he said, patting his head like he was a particularly stupid dog who’d finally managed a clever trick.

“Piss off.”

Moriarty sighed.

“You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you? Such a pretentious, self-righteous, honorable, little tin soldier,” he said, flicking him in the forehead with each syllable.

John couldn’t flinch from his touch, he couldn’t bite him either, but he could bloody well spit on his shoes and they were nice shoes, or had been. Of course, that quickly backfired when Moriarty simply wiped his shoe on his trousers, making sure the pointy end hit him in the shin and again, John couldn't do a damn thing about it.

“Well, Dr Watson, let’s see just how much of a hypocrite you really are.”

John was nonplussed. If there was

one thing no one had ever accused him of being, it was a hypocrite. The madman would have as much difficulties proving he was one as proving Sherlock was alive, and he wondered briefly if the constant tug of war between madness and genius going on in his greasy little head hadn't been won by the former after what had happened up on St Bart's rooftop.

Moriarty snapped his fingers once more and the normal chair was brought for Moriarty to sit at eye level with him while the screen switched on. He had seen images like those before. Moriarty had hacked into London's CCTV which was probably childishly easy for him to do.

“Now watch carefully.”

“Why?” John muttered, hoping there were no bombs involved this time.

“We’re choosing a second player. Well you are really, I'm just watching you to see who catches your fancy, it's more fun that way.”

John closed his eyes. He wasn't going to involve anyone else. Especially not someone who just happened to walk in front of a camera at the wrong place, at the wrong time.

“Don't make me cut out your eyelids, John. Why must you be so tedious?”

It only made him close his eyes tighter. He wouldn't do that, would he? And why did he need a second player? He already had him at his mercy. What had he said? That he wanted to prove he was a hypocrite? But he had no time to think on it in more details because he felt the cool metal tip of a knife cutting his cheekbone in warning.

“Don't test me,” Moriarty hissed then smirked when John opened his eyes to glare at him. “Better. Don't be a child, I won't be so forgiving next time.”

“I don't understand why you're doing this. If this is your game, shouldn't you explain the rules first.”

“No. That's boring. Don't be boring, John. Now look, and choose.”

John sighed but still tried not to look at the screen whilst keeping his eyes open, which was difficult when Moriarty kept pointing people out.

“How about that pregnant woman? It's a package deal: two for one. No? Lower stakes? How about an old lady, that one almost looks like your dear Mrs Hudson. No, you're right, old people can be so tedious. Oh! You like that one, do you? The blond with the polka dot dress? Alright, it's decided.”

John groaned at being read so easily but he still didn't see any point to this.

“You know, most people like to start small and build from there, draw it out for as long as possible. It's not a bad idea if you want something from them but you're just bait and really, breaking you is just a fun way to pass the time until Sherlock crawls out from under the rock he’s been hiding under all this time…”

John’s mouth went dry at that statement and he gulped because if he wasn't mistaken, Moriarty was talking about torturing him as casually as if he was discussing the weather.

“So I think it's smarter to bring out the big guns and break you immediately. So here's the first round: either Miss Polka gets ten lashes or you do.”

John closed his eyes. Torture it was. Fuck. Lashes? With a fucking whip? And ten of them? John knew very well what it would to to his skin, muscles, the blood loss and the pain… Oh God, the pain was going to be unbearable. He opened his eyes again only to be met by Moriarty's smug smile.

“Tick tock, Doctor Watson, tick tock.”

He had to delay this, play for time.

“How- how do I even know that it's not a trick? That this is a live feed?”

“Glad you asked. Tiger?”

John frowned, hoping he did not have a tiger on top of everything else. However, it's the mountain of a man behind him who reacted, talking codes into a phone.

“Watch.”

John did and the woman in the polka dress stopped walking as a man accosted her. Her posture screamed discomfort, even more so when he took her hand and waved it for her towards the CCTV before holding her in place there. She was player two, whether she wanted to be or not. There was only one way out of it for her.

“Tick tock,” Moriarty repeated.

“Me,” John said. “I-” he swallowed again. “I'll play this round.”

“Fantastic. As I expected.”

Moriarty stood suddenly and walked behind him. John was surprised as he'd been sure he wasn't the sort to get his own hands dirty. He'd said as much at the pool, hadn't he? It wasn't the leather tail of a whip he felt against his back however but the cold blade of the knife cutting through his clothes.

“I like a blank canvas,” Moriarty crooned as he pulled the ends of his ruined jumper and shirt down each side.

John shivered at the cold air on his bare back and at the thought that he wouldn't even have the flimsy protection of his own clothes to protect him. Moriarty was a true sadist.

“Or mostly blank,” he amended as his fingers scraped against the larger scar of the bullet wound where it had exited. “Tiger, did you warm up your lovely arms?”

“Yes, sir,” came a deep voice behind him, followed by the unmistakable swish and snap of a whip in the air as it didn't find a target. Not yet anyway.

Moriarty reappeared before him, twirling the knife in his hand expertly, and he sat back in his chair, at ease, his black eyes fixed on him like those of a piranha looking at a goat being lowered down into its water tank. He paused, gave a satisfied nod and- _whack!_ The whip sang through the air and he hadn't even had time to brace for the impact.

_One._

John bit his bottom lip hard to keep from screaming, wanting to keep that little dignity he had left from the madman in front of him, but it hurt so goddamn much. The pain was worse than he had expected. It burned and stung with equal intensity and pulsated without sign of abating with time.

_Two._

John fought to control his breathing, to control his panic, and closed his eyes so he didn't have to see Moriarty's eager face.

_Three._

John choked out a sob. There was only pain now in his mind and body. What did he care about dignity?

_Four._

John hadn't thought the lashes could become more painful but this one landed across the others and he thought he might simply pass out from the pain. _God please let me pass out._

_Five._

He's screaming in agony now and he doesn't care. He doesn't even feel it at first when the sixth lash doesn't come, nor does he feel the hand in his hair or his name being called. He's in his own personal hell of agony.

“Oh, you poor baby,” Moriarty sing songs. “Was that too much for you? We're only halfway done, you know? So I'm going to make you an offer: you can pass and give the five next lashes to player two. It would only be fair and you're all about fairness, aren't you? You don't need to play the hero. Not for me. Besides, there's no one to see, no one will ever know… So, what do you say, Johnny boy?”

John’s eyes slid to the screen where the woman was still being held against her will, looking to the world like she was just having a terse conversation with an acquaintance when she really had an axe hanging over her neck, because would she really survive five whiplashes? Well probably, but she would be scarred  for life, both physically and emotionally. But that was beside the point because she was innocent in all this, she hadn't done anything to deserve it, just worn a pretty dress that happened to catch his eye. At least he had sided voluntarily with Sherlock against Moriarty, and now, he was paying for it.

“Fuck you,” John growled.

“Uhm, I'll keep it in mind. But are you sure? You're only halfway done.”

“Me. I'll do it.”

“If you're sure. Say goodbye to the pretty lady.”

John startled for a moment and his eyes snapped back to the screen, but the woman was merely being released and she hurried off at a half run, darting glances behind her every few steps. He sighed in relief. For a moment there, he thought he was going to kill her.

“So honourable. And all it earns you is more pain. Well, let's see how long it lasts.”

_Six._

_It's okay, it's okay. Almost done now._

_Seven._

John could feel tears rolling down his face freely now but he didn't care at this point. He just wanted to make it to the end and kept repeating to himself that it was almost over.

_Eight._

Almost over. Almost. Just a little more.

_Nine._

How can a few minutes feels like an eternity? He must be centuries old now and he'll explode into a cloud of dust with the final lash.

_Ten._

Over. It was over. He'd done it. John moaned in both pain and relief. Somehow, he had done it, he had won his stupid game.

“Aw, that's cute,” Moriarty said as he patted his cheek. “You actually think it's over. I'll give it to you, you won this round, I'm impressed. Not many could take it, and for a complete stranger too. So brave. So stupid.”

Moriarty leaned over and John caught the full extent of the madness lurking in his eyes. Then, he leaned closer still and _licked_  the side of his face, but John couldn't even muster a shudder of repulsion, tied as he was and too exhausted to do anything but breathe in and out.

“Uhm. So sweet,” Moriarty drawled out and John realized he was literally tasting his tears, the lunatic. “This was nice, but I've got things to do, blackmail to plan, people to kill… Toodles.”

And he walked past him. He was really leaving, and his whipper boy with him if he could believe the retreating footsteps and slam of the door.

John was alone. Maybe he would just be left there to slowly bleed out in peace. What had the world suddenly turned to that it would be a small mercy?


	2. We Know What We Are but not What We May Be

The pain radiating from his back was like a burning hot blanket weighed down with stones trying to smother him. John had trouble just keeping his breathing slow and even because he knew hyperventilating wouldn't be helping him any. He was almost glad for the distraction when the door creaked and slammed behind him, because it allowed him to concentrate on something other that the pain.

Someone was approaching, but it wasn't the squeak of Moriarty's expensive leather shoes, nor the heavy thuds of his tiger. This one was light-footed and slow. Quiet. John felt like a prey, unable to escape the approaching predator. He flinched at the sudden contact of a hand on his back. Feather-light touches, not meant to hurt, that much was obvious. Then he realized with the sting and smell of disinfectant that he was being healed, and bandaged. The insanity of such an act after what he went through wasn’t lost on him, but he knew it was only done because Moriarty intended to prolong his suffering.

And why? Because the madman thought Sherlock was alive? But then again, Moriarty had a point since he was himself alive when John had been so sure he was as dead as a doornail, brains blown out and everything. Beyond repair. So how? How?

And Sherlock? He’d seen him jump, had seen the blood seeping into the flagstones of the sidewalk, had felt for his pulse, a pulse that was absent. He was a doctor, he knew how to take someone’s pulse… there had been no pulse! He was sure of it. 

Sherlock was dead.

The familiar sound of medical supplies being piled back into a bag behind him brought John out of his thoughts. Whoever had healed him hadn’t made a sound, but John had felt his hands shaking. He was either a doctor who shouldn’t practice, or he was there against his will just like he was, and terrified out of his wits.

“Who’re you?” John asked, his voice slurred by exhaustion.

“I- I’m n-not here to hurt you. I healed you. I- I tried, but…” he drew in a heavy breath. “I’m just a medical student. I never… your back… They told me to make sure you don’t die or they’ll kill me.”

John sighed. Of course they did, and they would do it too.

“I’m sure you did fine. I’ll be alright, don’t worry. You just listen to what they tell you and they won’t hurt you.”

He hoped, but with someone as volatile as Moriarty, it wasn’t a guarantee. He didn’t want to scare the poor bloke more than he already was though.

“Do you know who they are?” he asked, barely a whisper.

“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

“I’d better go,” he said and hurried out as quietly as he had come.

Some people really had rotten luck.

 

As it turned out, the massage chair, when left to sleep in it: not that comfortable. But he supposed it was best so he didn’t roll over on his ravaged back in his pain-fueled, exhausted slumber. Wake-up call came all too soon when Tiger undid the ropes, sliding them free over his skin and clothes for maximum burn effect, as if he hadn’t done enough with the whip already. Forget about Moriarty being a sadist, his minion was worse.

Tiger pulled him to his feet, not giving him the time to work out the knots and spasms from his stiff body. He pushed him forward, probably hoping he’d fall but he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction, even after the next four shoves it took him to get him to a bathroom.

“Make yourself presentable,” he muttered and slammed the door shut.

A sink, washcloth, toothbrush and even a change of clothes as well as a much needed toilet. He’d bet they wouldn’t give him long though, so John didn’t even try to understand why they were even bothering with a toothbrush, of all things… or was this a test? See if he was going to turn the toothbrush into a shiv or something? He didn’t have time to seriously consider it however, because the door opened again and he’d barely had time to pee. Tiger pushed someone else in: a skinny young man with jet black hair who dropped his bag as he stumbled in. John was in no shape to catch him as he fell on all fours, but he did give him a hand up afterwards.

“Thanks,” the newcomer muttered.

“You’re the guy from yesterday? The med student?” John asked, thinking it might be his voice, but he’d been so out of it, it could just be his imagination.

The young man nodded and picked up his bag.

“Yeah. I’m Alex. I have to redo your bandages when you’ve washed up. I’ll just… er… look at the door. Tell me when you’re finished.”

John sighed and quickly finished washing himself with the washcloth everywhere he could reach but it hurt to bend over or twist too much as the bandages and wounds on his back would pull at his skin and crack. It would have to do and he pulled on the clean underwear and trousers, both of which were way too overdressed for someone locked in a dungeon. Even the white dress shirt he'd left aside for the moment was something he'd never willingly wear, and he knew the welts, even bandaged, would bleed through it within an hour. He told Alex he was finished, then watched the young man in the small mirror’s reflection as he stood behind him to pull off yesterday’s bandages and saw him visibly pale. He’d have to toughen up if he wanted to continue his studies.

“How does it look?” he asked.

“I don’t think I have a word for it.”

“That bad, eh?”

“Why are they doing this?”

“For fun, or so I've been told. I’ve known worse.”

That one was a bit fat whopper, but he didn’t want his only doctor to quit on him. Not only for himself either, because Alex would be punished if he did, he was sure of it.

“Mental,” Alex muttered and started his treatment of his wounds anew until he was all bandaged again, but still in a world of pain. 

He didn’t even ask if his doc had painkillers as that would be counterproductive to Moriarty’s plans, but bully for him because it only made John more determined not to break. All too soon, Tiger came back to escort him to “his” room, leaving Alex locked in the bathroom. He wondered if there was only Tiger guarding the whole place but that seemed unlikely. This was Moriarty he was dealing with. He had a whole criminal empire at his disposal. So he was understandably surprised when it was still Tiger who delivered him some food on a platter. John was sorely tempted to ask him if he wiped his boss’s arse clean too, but suspected the consequences would not be worth it.

 

John knew he was due round two of Moriarty’s twisted little game when the door was flung open with as much drama as a squeaking metal door would allow. John watched warily from his corner of the room. He hadn’t been tied back to the chair so he could eat on his own, but Tiger wasn’t taking any chances with John free of his movements with his boss in the room.

“I’ve been thinking,” Moriarty said and all John’s mind could come up with was  _ Uh-oh _ . “I’m not sure this is the best way to go about breaking you. I’ve been going through the possibilities: teeth-pulling, bamboos under the nails, waterboarding, flailing… I like them all, but I think with you, it needs to be a bit more personal.”

John didn’t have a clue as to what he meant by that, but he was glad if it meant he didn’t have to go through any of those. But what could be worse? He was still puzzling over it when Moriarty said they were going for a walk, which at least explained why he had wanted him to be presentable. They entered a black car with black tinted windows that might as well be Mycroft’s vehicles with its pompousness and false sense of mystery. John sat facing Moriarty and the barrel of Tiger’s gun. The man had one steady hand, he'd give him that, and his green eyes never wavered for a second. John wondered if he even blinked. He knew he should be, physiologically needed to blink, but he never caught him at it. However, he  _ was _ rather busy avoiding resting his back rest against the leather seat because he felt every bump in the road like a punch. Moriarty was in turn engrossed in his phone and giving his driver directions. It sounded as if they were going round in circles until the car stopped, tires screeching across the mouth of an alley.

“Got him,” the driver said, and John guessed this was still a two player game.

“Ready?” Moriarty asked him.

“Do I have a choice?” John muttered.

“Collar him, Tiger. We don’t want our little pet to stray off for his little walk.”

John balked at seeing an honest to God metal collar with a chain that he must have stolen in a museum of horrors. As soon as Tiger traded his gun for the collar, John took advantage of the situation and kicked at the hulking man. This was his chance. Maybe his only chance. He didn't have a gun on him and there were only two of them. He'd faced worse odds.

But he soon realized that in those odds, he hadn't just been whipped to bloody rubbing. Tiger easily pushed him back in the leather seat with all his weight, making him scream in agony from the pressure on the welts covering his back. Tiger then strangled him with one hand while the other opened the collar around his neck then snapped it closed with a metallic clang and fucking padlocked it in place before holding the chain out to his boss so he could take out his gun again. For a minion, he was far too smart.

“Bad dog,” Moriarty scolded and yanked on the chain, making him fall at his feet.

John had to admit he did feel like biting him right then. He had the anger, but not the strength. At this rate, he feared he would never have the will to fight back again and this was just the beginning. Only one round, and he was already thinking like this…

Moriarty climbed out of the car and pulled on the chain again in a silent order for him to follow, which he did, hanging his head. John didn't want to see player two. He didn't want to play. He wanted out.

“Is that how you greet your friends, pet? No wonder they all deserted you.”

_ No… _ John’s eyes snapped up and met those of DI Lestrade, backed against the wall with a red dot dancing across his chest. He probably looked as horrified at seeing him as he was, but at least John knew what to expect now, and if Moriarty hadn't changed the rules, he could get Lestrade out of this without any harm done. He would, without hesitation. So how was this proving he was a hypocrite? How was this drawing Sherlock out? It made no sense.

“Round two! The choice is simple, pet: either you suck off our good detective inspector here, or he sucks you off. Tick tock, doc. What'll it be?”

John paled. This had nothing to do with the first round. Neither of them was spared playing this time. It wasn't fair. He was changing the rules, that bastard.

“Tick tock.”

John couldn't look at Lestrade, but he couldn't make him do that either. What choice did he really have?”

“I'll do it,” he muttered.

Moriarty laughed at his answer, the chain rattling between them.

“And you're always claiming not to be gay when you jump at the opportunity to give a blowjob the first chance you get? You're not foolish anyone, pet.”

John knew it was no use saying he wasn't, that it wasn't like he had a choice in the matter. Lestrade didn't know any better, though.

“What the hell? There's no way-” he started but got clobbered on the side of the head with the butt of Tiger’s gun before he could say anymore. 

John didn't blame him. He'd be protesting just as much in his place. Lestrade didn't know Moriarty, not really, not like him. John knew Moriarty got what he wanted, that the red dot dancing on the DI’s chest was not just for show.

“Get on with it. I haven't got all day.”

John felt unbelievably self-conscious as he walked up to Lestrade and knelt down in front of him. He couldn't meet his eyes. He didn't want to see what sort of expression he had on his face or he might not be able to go through with it.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he reached up with shaky hands to undo Lestrade’s belt, flick the button open and then pull his fly down.

He paused to take in a shaky breath, hearing Lestrade do much the same. But it was okay, he could do this. He'd done it before, a long time ago, and it was like riding a bicycle, right? John yelped when Moriarty suddenly tugged on the collar.

“More action, boys.”

John tugged the collar forward so he could breathe again and noticed Lestrade's fists balled into fists and shaking with fury. He dearly hoped it was directed more at Moriarty than him. He hoped Lestrade understood he didn't have a choice, that not playing along was a death sentence.

“Relax,” John whispered in the hopes Lestrade could hear him. “It'll only be worse if you resist.”

John gently pulled Lestrade's limp cock out and almost felt stupidly glad it was someone he knew rather than a stranger, then wanted to kick himself at the thought because how horrified and traumatized was Lestrade going to be after this? How was he ever going to be able to look him in the eye when they met again. If that was ever an issue at all.

All in all, Lestrade was just another bystander in the war between Sherlock (still dead) and Moriarty (unfortunately not), and all John could do to soften the blow was offer to give him the blowjob rather than receiving it.

John had to use all of his talents to get Lestrade from flaccid to semi-hard and he was terribly afraid Moriarty would get tired of watching and order something much worse, so he put his all in it and got Lestrade nice and hard under his tongue. The man's breathing became erratic, almost panicked, so John reached up for one of his hands and squeezed it gently so he would understand that it was okay, that he could let go and stop fighting it.

Lestrade tensed at first, then came with a grunt. Having had no precise directives other than “suck off”, John was ready to take it literally and swallow Lestrade's cum, but he was suddenly yanked back again, and it was only by sheer luck that he didn't fall flat on his back and hurt what little healing he'd done since his whipping.

However Moriarty continued to pull at his chain until he was kneeling at his feet and it was with a new sort of horror and shame that he realized his tormentor had enjoyed the show a bit too much.

“That's enough, pet. I don't want you to  _ enjoy _ it.”

John glanced at Lestrade who had already tucked himself back in and whose expression was flickering so fast between pity, anger and disgust that it had his head spinning. John looked away. He'd done what he had to. He couldn't do anything more to spare the Detective Inspector, except let himself be carted away because it meant they would release Lestrade like they had the woman in the polka dot dress. Lestrade was safe and that was all that mattered for now. 

John was not looking forward to the next round and the next player. Pain first, then humiliation. What would come next?

He ignored both his tormentors on their way back to the room with the chair and the screen, even when Tiger tied him up again the way he had to whip him. He doubted Moriarty was so dull as to torture him twice in the same way.

When he could finally see what Moriarty was doing, he saw the familiar CCTV feed, feeling a pang in his chest when he saw Lestrade. Moriarty was playing Lestrade's progress from the moment they left, starting with the D.I. stumbling out of the alley before he suddenly stopped and bent over to retch.

“Looks like he didn't enjoy it as much as you did, Johnny boy,” Moriarty cackled and John swallowed a lump in his throat because he was right.  _ He _ had done that to Lestrade, under duress, sure, but it was still because of him that Lestrade was vomiting his guts out on the side of a street after he had… Oh God, he all but raped him, hadn't he? Forced himself on him, forced him to come… John almost felt like retching too, but his eyes were glued to the screen, needing to make sure Lestrade would be okay. He was going back to Scotland Yard. John wasn’t sure whether that was a good or a bad thing. Then Moriarty fast forwards until they catch up to Lestrade in the present. It’s another quarter hours before he leaves Scotland Yard with fresh clothes and looking like he just showered. John didn’t blame him, he’d love a shower too, even knowing it would be agony on his welts. After that, he was headed straight for his bedsit and even if they lost sight of him when he entered the building, John gasped when they clearly saw him enter his own room. And not the gritty image of a CCTV either. On these images, they were a lot clearer, a lot closer and he could see how tense Lestrade was as he kicked the door in, gun at the ready to sweep the room before putting it back in his holster.

“It’s cute the way I can still surprise you, Johnny boy. You should know by now I have eyes and ears everywhere.”

“Since when?” John asked, aghast.

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

John guessed that meant since day one. The lunatic was right, he really shouldn’t be surprised anymore by how entangled he had gotten in his web. His room was small with an open kitchen and a small bathroom so it only took a minute for Lestrade to make sure he wasn’t hiding under the bed or something. He came back to the middle of the room before returning to the bed where John glimpsed a small white square on his pillow.

“What’s that?” John asked because he hadn’t left that there the morning he had been taken.

“It’s a little gift,” Moriarty chuckled. “Which reminds me. Tiger, get our man in place for when he unwraps it, that’s always entertaining.”

John feared the worse, but the thing on his pillow had been too thin to be a bomb. Lestrade returned to Scotland Yard and sat at his desk. Someone was following him with a camera  _ inside  _ the Yard this time. Moriarty had a mole in the bloody Yard! He hoped they wouldn’t be hurting Lestrade again, but his stalker seemed content with just spying on him. The image was good if shaky but the sound only came in sporadically. He heard the blood curdling scream that came from Lestrade’s desk however. It wasn’t Lestrade, he was looking wide eyed at his computer screen, mouth agape before letting his head fall in his hands.

“What was that?” John breathed out.

“That, my sweet little pet, was you from our last session. Now shush, I need to see the next part.”

Lestrade looked like he was going to be sick again, then he somehow snapped out of it, looking like he usually did on crime scenes, all business and no nonsense. He called in Donovan and waved at his desk, then was passing one phone call after another, looking more frustrated with every one, but so was Moriarty.

“Umh, it’s not him then. I thought he was a safe bet.”

“Not him what?”

“Someone out there knows Sherlock isn’t dead and knows how to contact him. They just need an incentive to do so. You're that inventive.”

“He’s dead,” John repeated for the umpteenth time.

“Don’t be dull. Do you really think I would be wasting my time with you if I didn’t know for certain that he was alive? Although I admit it’s been more fun so far than I expected.”

The look Moriarty gave him after that sent chills down his spine. He had the eyes of a wild beast setting eyes on his next meal and John knew to keep very still, not to react so he wouldn’t pounce on him.

“Oh well, now that it’s out, news will reach him anyway, so my job is half done.”

Moriarty looked at him expectantly.

“Where’s your curiosity gone to? Don’t you want to know what the other half is?”

“No,” John muttered because he knew he wouldn’t like it, not that Moriarty cared because he answered anyway.

“It’s to break you, all of you, before I give you back to your original master. And you showed me the way to proceed. Thanks for that, pet. Pain doesn’t work on you and I admire that. You can endure more than most people I’ve had under my thumb, but this…” Moriarty talked on the chain. “Oh boy, be prepared for the next round because you’re not going to like it one bit.”

Moriarty ruffled his hair and left him alone in the dark to wait for his next game. Even the knowledge that he was finally filed as a missing person, that people were out looking for him, didn’t alleviate his fear at Moriarty’s parting shot.

What was the lunatic cooking up this time? Who was going to be the other player? Closing his eyes with the memory of Lestrade’s horrified eyes, he hoped that he, at least, would be left out of it this time, even if it meant dragging someone else into it.

  
  
  
  



	3. There is Nothing Either Good or Bad but Thinking Makes it so

The next day, when the door opened, John was relieved to find it was only Alex, his fellow prisoner and resident doctor, who had come to care for his wounds. He was diligent, as always but less talkative than usual. John hoped nothing bad had happened to him, but even if something had, what could he possibly do when he couldn’t even protect himself. When the door opened again, Alex stepped all the way back to the wall furthest away, his eyes wide with terror. So, he’d met Moriarty, then.

“Hello, pet. He’s cute that one, isn’t he? As coy as a kitten.”

John didn’t think that warranted any kind of reaction on his part, but he had a niggling feeling of where this was headed and he closed his eyes in defeat.

“Come here, kitty kitty. Good. Now untie our good doctor here, I need him flipped around.”

Alex approached with such reluctance, the floor might as well have been made of molten lava. He untied him with shaking hands, but always mindful not to cause him any pain. When he was done, he did what was probably the bravest thing he would ever do in his whole life: he stood up to Moriarty.

“But he shouldn’t be on his back, sir. His wounds-”

He was promptly slapped across the cheek with enough force than he stumbled a few steps to the left. John flipped onto his back as quickly as he could manage just in case Alex had the inane idea of trying to defend him again, doing his best not to wince as the chair’s hard surface pressed against his bandaged welts.

“Perfect,” Moriarty purred, looking down at him. “Let’s begin with round three.”

And what John had feared became a reality: Alex would be player two today. He’d bet Moriarty had let them get better acquainted on purpose until now, just to fuck more with his mind.

“Yesterday was interesting. You seemed to be under the illusion that you were sacrificing yourself for your Detective Inspector friend. Playing the hero once again. So I thought I’d dedicate this round to teaching you a memorable lesson.”

Moriarty clapped his hands and Tiger took his gun out and pointed it right at Alex’s head.

“You, kitten, are going to give Dr Watson the best blowjob you can manage. I know you lack experience, but I expect you to make up for it with enthusiasm.”

Alex shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut as if it would make this nightmare go away if he wished it hard enough.

“I- I can't,” he choked out with a sob.

“You'd rather be dead?” Moriarty asked, sounding amused.

“Stop it,” John said. “I'll do it.”

“No, no, no. That's not today's lesson,” he said with finality.

Next thing he knew, Moriarty snatched Tiger's gun out of his hand and shot Alex himself without even taking the time to aim. It all happened in a few seconds,, he didn't have time to stop it… John sat up so suddenly, he felt blood seep through his bandages again, but Tiger took hold of the chain tied to his collar and yanked him back, rolling the chain once around his throat and chair to hold him in place. John strained to see Alex, but he was merely rubbing at his thigh. A graze, then. Whether that was intentional or not was anyone's guess, but it had the intended effect: Alex kept his gaze down as he crawled towards him, tears running down his face as he reached for his fly, shaking from head to toe.

“See. He's a fast learner. You should take example on him, Johnny boy.”

John tried to sit up again, to do something, anything, so Alex didn't have to go through this, but Tiger was holding him back by both the collar and chain, almost choking him and even if he did anything, Alex would be the one to get hurt, so he stopped struggling. He was stuck. He really didn't want to do this, but he couldn't do anything to stop it either and suddenly, he realized what lesson he was supposed to be learning today: how he hadn't sacrificed himself for Lestrade by offering to be the one sucking him off, that having someone you know being forced on their knees to do that to you was just as horrible to deal with as doing it against your will. And Alex was sobbing as he pulled his trousers apart and reached for his cock. He was too young to go through this, too innocent.

“Just kill me,” he snarled at Moriarty. “Just fucking kill me already!”

“Ah, but you’re learning. I can’t possibly deprive you of such a rare opportunity,” he replied then swatted Alex on the arse with the gun. “Do stop snivelling, kitten, it’s unbecoming.”

Alex sniffled then took one large breath and started working his tongue on him and then his fingers. Whatever Moriarty had thought, Alex was  _ very _ talented and John hated, absolutely hated, that he was hardening and taking pleasure from him, stealing it from him. He could keep telling himself it was just physiological, that it couldn’t be helped, that he was not really enjoying it… but he was, Oh God, he was. What sort of monster was he? And he’d done the same to Lestrade, he’d made him live through the same special hell he was in now. No wonder he’d vomited his guts out as soon as he’d been let free.

But he wasn’t quite there yet himself, even if Alex was doing his best to get him there, he had to let go, stop fighting it, just like he’d tried telling Lestrade.

And live with the consequences.

John cried out as he came, trying to keep still and not buck into Alex’s mouth, thankful when he felt him step back and leave him to his shame. He couldn't not hear him sob as he was taken out though.

“Please let him go now. You made your point, I get it. I was wrong. Please, please let him go.”

Moriarty only laughed.

“You can't possibly be that naive, pet. Why ever would I do such a thing?”

John knew it was no use appealing to his better nature. He had none. Compassion is out so… What does he want? What would he understand? 

“If you let him go, he'll go to the cops, he knows my name so Sherlock will hear about it. It'll draw him out faster, you'll see.”

“So now you believe you can manipulate me? You're getting cocky, Johnny boy.”

“I'll do anything. Please?”

John couldn't believe it had come to this, that he was begging this lunatic, but it was a small price to pay for another’s life. He'd beg on his knees if he had to.

“Anything?” Moriarty mocked and stood, showing off his tented trousers.

Just as he thought. The maniac had enjoyed the show and John looked pointedly at his crotch. Maybe he'd be going down on his knees, but not to beg, per say.

“You little slut. You're really taking a liking to cock, aren't you?”

He paused, coking his head to the side as he looked down at him. John held his breath. This might work. He might be able to get Alex out of this hellhole.

“I am rather high strung at the moment. Too much work, not enough play. Let go of my pet, Tiger, and here, take your gun back. But you'd better do a good job, Johnny boy, and I'm warning you, I better not feel the slightest scrape of teeth coming from you or I'll pull every last fucking one of them out myself and have so many cocks shoved down your throat even your tea will taste of cum.”

John pushed himself up to a sitting position and tucked himself back in while Moriarty took his vest off and folded it neatly over the back of his chair, then undid his own pants, his cock springing free.

“Wait. I want your word that you'll let Alex… kitten, go.”

Moriarty smiled like a shark, all teeth and fathomless eyes.

“You have my word. On your knees now, Johnny boy. Daddy’s getting impatient.”

His cock twitched as he gave him the order and John imagined he was as eager getting a blowjob as getting it from him. Hell, he'd practically begged to do it, but he was in charge now, he had the power and he would win this round by getting Alex free. John got down on his knees and started out slowly, but Moriarty was having none of it. He pulled him down by his hair and shoved forward eagerly, a low rumbling keen escaping his thin lips. John gagged, and it was all he could do not to bite down on his cock, but he knew he had to keep at it or Moriarty would renege on the deal and John would then lose everything. He forced himself to relax, slacken his jaw and take in the length of Moriarty’s cock everytime he thrust his hips forward. It was brutal, but it wouldn't take long. His tormentor was already twitching and losing his pace and soon, he came down his throat, holding John there by a fistful of his hair until he was completely spent. John was disgusted. He had never felt so used before in his life. Given recent events, that was saying a lot.

But it was worth it, he kept telling himself, even as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wanting to retch but breathing through the nausea until it subsided so Moriarty wouldn't come back on his promise.

“You'll release him now?” John asked once Moriarty had gotten dressed and seemed back in control of himself.

“I'm a man of my word. We'll even drop him off right at Scotland Yard‘s doors. That always pisses them off. And who knows? You might be right about it drawing Sherlock out. It's worth a shot, if you'll pardon my pun.”

John slumped back on himself with a sigh, not bothering to climb back on his massage chair because it had become so uncomfortable and he didn't have the energy for it.

“Of course, there's plenty more med students where he came from, running around with their nose in a book, so if I were you, I'd be careful about not needing one again or I'll just have to help myself, won't I?”

John stiffened at the threat, glancing daggers at the madman’s back as he left the room laughing.

 

John slept curled in on himself on the hard floor to try to keep warm while avoiding putting pressure on his back. The welts still scratched and burned and pulled at his skin but there was nothing he could do about it and now, he had no one to change the bandages.

Moriarty came in with his usual minion and breakfast, which was sort of nice, he supposed, for a psychopath. They didn't tie him to his chair this time, but Tiger held on to his chain in silent warning. Given the sheer strength the man exuded, John wouldn't be surprised if he could snap his neck just by tugging sharply on it. He'd better pray the man didn't sneeze.

The screen came to life with the image of a van slowing in front of the familiar New Scotland Yard building before pushing poor Alex through the back and shooting a couple of round in the air. As if they hadn't brought enough attention to themselves already. So he'd had kept his word, although he had delayed his fellow prisoner's release till morning. Could have  been worse though. John had been stupid not to specify “immediately”. Poor bloke must have spent a terrible night fearing the worse the next time he saw Moriarty, or even himself. They followed Alex’s progress inside, like they had for Lestrade, and the he looked even more lost than he had during his time here. He spoke to a detective John didn't know, probably another division, and after a few minutes, he was on his phone. Soon, Lestrade was there too, looking grim and terrible. John hated himself all over again for what he did to him, to both of them.

They questioned Alex for a while, but there was no sound to accompanying the videofeed this time, although he suspected Moriarty could read their lips because he would snicker now and then for no apparent reason. Alex was then lead away by a woman and the camera followed Lestrade back to his office. John thought that was the end of it, and probably the mole at the Yard did too because he started looking away when they all spotted a tornado in a white lab coat striding purposefully towards them. It took John a while to recognize Molly. He hadn't seen her since Sherlock's funeral and he'd never seen such an expression on her face. Stealing a sidelong glance at Moriarty, John was surprised to see he looked… different. But he'd dated Molly for a short while after all, even under pretence, so maybe he still cared about her in some twisted way.

“Follow Molly,” he snapped suddenly and Tiger pulled at his chain as he related the order into his phone.

John flinched. He hoped Molly was not the next player or they might just both die because there was no way he could ever hurt her in any way. She was too goddamned innocent for her own good.

“Oh Mollycoddles. What are you hiding, you little she-devil?”

They watched as she hurried back to her own lair in the morgue, slamming the door behind her, then locking it by the sound of it.

“Sorry boss,” came a gruff voice as the camera stared at the door for a few seconds before walking past it. 

John thought that was it for this mystery, but Moriarty was typing furiously on his phone and suddenly, the screen switched to a view from the inside of the lab. A good clear view and they even had sound. John wondered if he had just hacked into Molly’s computer because he could just make out the bottom of a keyboard at the screen’s edge. John was impressed, but it was probably child’s play for the man who had worked in IT in that very same place what seemed like a lifetime ago.

Molly walked past the screen and up to a filing  cabinet where she stopped and kneeled down, reaching with her hand in the small space under the piece of old furniture before coming back up with a black phone. She stood and pulled off the rest of the tape that had kept the device hidden there, before blowing dust off its surface.

To say John was flabbergasted would be an understatement. He'd be less surprised to see the Queen dance a tango with Mycroft. What the hell was she playing at? She pressed a button, looking relieved, then held the phone to her ear, waiting.

“I know,” she suddenly hissed, looking behind her shoulder. “but you also told me to call you if John was in danger. Well, he is. I just heard it from one of my assistants and I went to check for myself. He's disappeared for a few days now and Lestrade says a crazy Irishman has him. I think it's Jim. The things Lestrade told me… it has to be him.”

She paused, looking crossed at whatever was being said on the other end, then sighed.

“Yes, I know it's impossible, but how many would say the same thing about you? You have to come back, Sherlock. Now.”

John's heart skipped a beat at the name. He hadn't wanted to believe until then. It could have been someone else. John didn't know who, but anyone else. It couldn't be… but Moriarty’s exultant cackles told him otherwise.

“You bad, bad girl, Molly. I never would have guessed in a million years. To think the great Sherlock Holmes trusted his secret to the gullible, simpering, lovestruck puppy-dog, but never even breathed a word to his own faithful lapdog. This is too precious.”

John was too lost for words himself, while Moriarty couldn't stop laughing at the truth he had just uncovered. He was glad when he was left alone in the dark. He thought that was it for today. After all, Moriarty had gotten what he wanted: Sherlock had received his invitation and John had just broken into a million pieces at this betrayal from the only man he'd ever considered his best friend. There was a new crack in his already battered heart and it had hollowed it out so thoroughly that it would surely turn to dust now at the slightest upset.

 


	4. To Thine Own Self be True, Thou Canst Not Then be False to Any Man

John should have known better than to think the revelation of Sherlock's livelihood and betrayal would have been enough torture for the day. It hadn't, after all, been a game at all, just a grand reveal.

He still cringed upon hearing Moriarty's next words.

“Truth or dare! Although I really don't suggest the dares, you're not going to like them.”

As usual, he was tied up, but facing Moriarty this time, which didn't bode well given what had happened the last time he'd been on his back. Worse was that Moriarty was hiding something behind his back. It couldn't be too big, or too heavy… but then he heard a noise like static electricity and he knew.

“What is that for?” John asked warily when his fears were confirmed and a taser was placed under his nose.

“That, my dear pet, is to make the game a little more interesting. Call it an incentive to be truthful, if you will. I have to keep up your training after all. It’s going so well, so no slacking off! The clock is ticking now. Tick tock, Doc, tick tock.”

Tiger gave a nod of his head and disappeared behind him. 

“Let’s begin! Truth or dare?”

John hesitated because he didn’t like the idea of playing along, but if Moriarty said the dares were horrible, they were probably beyond what he could ever imagine, and there was always the risk he would involve a third party. Even if there was no one else in the room at present, he knew he could just go pick one off the street at any moment like the woman in the polka dot dress. Truth seemed like the safest option, all things considered. The only option.

“Truth.”

“Did you sleep with Sherlock.”

“No,” John scoffed.

“That’s disappointing. Or maybe not. Maybe he was saving himself for you, but no one’s going to want you when I’m done with you, you little cockslut. Because you fantasized about our pretty Sherly, didn’t you, pet?”

“No,” John snapped, annoyed by this line of questioning. 

It wasn’t like that between them. It had never been. Sherlock had been very clear from the start. Suddenly, his whole body tensed, as rigid as a plank and straining against his bounds so hard, it might hurt if he wasn’t already in a world of pain. His muscles all cramped simultaneously, stopping his heart, his breathing and it was too long, too long, he couldn’t-

And then it stopped, and he fell back against the chair when he shouldn’t have been able to arch off it to begin with. He gasped for air, trying to regain his bearings.

“Uhm,” he heard Moriarty say although he couldn’t focus on him yet. “Tiger, did you modify this thing? You could have warned me. Oh, well. Johnny boy? Pet?”

John thought he managed to garble something so Moriarty would stop slapping his face.

“Good, you’re back. Now you know why you shouldn’t lie. Truth or Dare?”

“T-Truth,” John stammered and he’d be damned if he was caught lying again. How had he known? It had only been a half-truth, or a half-lie. He didn't willfully think about his former roommate that way. Sometimes, his mind just… wandered in places it shouldn't. He blamed Sherlock for walking around half naked when he couldn't bother.

“Did you have wet dreams about Sherlock?”

“Yes,” he gasped, still short of breath and dizzy.

Moriarty snickered.

“I knew it. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“How about our good Detective Inspector? You liked sucking him off, didn’t you? You enjoyed it, I saw it. You tried to hide it, but you can’t hide anything from me. Well?”

“Y-yes,” John closed his eyes.

He hadn’t even wanted to think back on that fleeting moment when he’d been glad it was Lestrade, or when he’d decided to swallow his cum and hadn’t even minded. He hated that he could have enjoyed it even for a second because it wasn’t right.

“Shame on you, pet. Shame on you. If the poor detective knew about it, how much more do you think he would hate you? What about kitten? Did you enjoy him?”

“No.”

John glared at Moriarty, daring him to tase him because Alex had been crying, he’d been traumatized before he’d even begun and it was wrong on a whole other level even if he couldn’t very well explain the difference himself.

“And what about me? Did you like what I did to you?” Moriarty purred.

John couldn’t repress a grimace and wondered if he’d get tased for telling the truth anyway.

“No.”

The taser danced before his nose. He tried to melt into his chair so he could put more distance between him and the sparks it was emitting until it was replaced by Moriarty’s mock pout.

“That’s not very nice, pet. Was I too rough? I thought you’d enjoy it, and it’s your own fault for being such a tease. Another truth?”

John growled in acknowledgement. It wasn't difficult as long as he didn't lie and he could see this game was only meant to humiliate him, just like his last games had been.

“How angry are you at Sherlock?”

“What do you think? I'm fucking pissed at him.”

Moriarty chuckled.

“Enough to hurt him?”

“No.”

He wouldn't. He was furious but- The shock that ran through his body was worse if possible. It felt as if his muscles were burning and tearing apart at the same time. His teeth clenched so hard, he feared they might break under the strain, but he couldn't unlock his jaw with the electric shock running through him.

“Fucking hell,” he said when he was let go, before his head lolled back, sapped of all strength to do anything.

Maybe he passed out because his tormentor was slapping him in the face again.

“We’re not finished, pretty boy, but you'd better be truthful. I know you want to hurt Sherlock, make him pay for his betrayal. Anyone would. Don't you?”

“No.”

There had to be an explanation. He'd at least hear him out. He- Moriarty pushed the taser into his belly this time. It burned, spasms ran up and down his body as all his muscled locked taut once more. There was no way to get used to such pain. 

“Don't lie. It's useless. You're only lying to yourself. You know what he did to you is unforgivable. Laying his trust in that dimwitted cooky-dough instead of his most faithful friend. Despicable, even by my standards. I know you would hurt him if he walked through that door right now.”

John eyes slid despite him to the door behind Moriarty’s exultant face, half expecting Sherlock to appear, to save him from all this pain, but of course, he didn't. Why would he? He had abandoned him for a year already, hadn't even trusted him with his secret in all this time. So why would he care? Had he ever? 

John had. He thought they had been friends, that they would always be there for each other. How could he have been so wrong? So naive? He  _ was _ an idiot, just like Sherlock had been telling him all along.

“Admit it, pet. You'll feel better.”

John imagined Sherlock waltzing in with his smug face at having pulled off his clever deception, and yeah okay, if that happened, he might very well punch that knowing smile right off his face. It would feel liberating, if only briefly. That was the truth, then.

“Yes. Yes, I would.”

Moriarty clapped, his eyes gleeful at his admission. John didn’t know why he even bothered resisting.

“Truth or dare, Johnny boy. Come on, we’re having so much fun,” he added when John sighed. 

Was this ever going to end? He was certain he couldn’t take another dose of that overpowered taser. He’d rather be punished with something solid like a knife or even the whip, something that wouldn’t make him feel so weak, like he was completely losing control of his body while his mind felt like it was swimming in coton, the sensation lingering long after the initial shock. But he couldn’t lie either and he didn’t like the direction these questions were going. So if the taser was only meant for lies, did that mean the dares were actually safer? Moriarty had said he wouldn’t like them but it was not like he was trustworthy… Exhausted, John decided out of desperation to go ahead, all the while knowing his cognitive functions were more than a little skewed at the moment.

“Dare.”

“Oh, how adventurous! Now you really have to do it or I’ll fry your brains out.”

Ah. So the taser wasn’t just for the lies. Just one more of Moriarty’s arbitrary rules, he supposed. It had been worth a try though. Maybe. It all depended on the dare, so John waited with baited breath.

“Kiss me like you’ve dreamed of kissing Sherlock.”

John blinked at him, sure he must have misheard at first. That was all? He’d expected a lot worse coming from him, but maybe his dares were starting off slow. John would just have to go with the truths again from now on, that was all.

“Untie him, Tiger. I doubt the good doctor can even walk at this point, much less hurt me.”

His minion obeyed, cutting the ropes away this time before pushing him up to a sitting position. His whole body felt like jelly and it took all his strength just to keep upright. Kiss him like Sherlock, he’d said, but when he looked up to Moriarty, he was the one who was on him like a swarm of locusts and it was hard to think of Sherlock at all. Surprisingly, the kiss was fine. He wasn’t brutal like the last time he’d touched him. He would even call it sweet if it was anyone but this nutjob. Of course, that didn’t last and John tried to break off the kiss when Moriarty climbed in his lap and began to nip a his neck while his hands wandered under his shirt.

“Don’t,” John said, a spike of fear shooting through him.

He was going too far and showed no signs of stopping as he gave him a mocking smile and pulled his shirt apart, buttons flying everywhere.

“Or what, pet?”

“Stop!” he screamed in a panic now and somehow managed to get away from the madman by falling off the chair. He tried to scramble back but his legs wouldn’t obey. They were like dead weights that twitched at random and slowed down his retreat..

“Tiger,” Moriarty sighed and stood waiting until the other man had grasped his chain and pulled sharply. 

John couldn’t even use his arms to crawl away now, desperately clawing at his collar for air to be let through while he was being dragged backwards, back towards his tormentor, the cold hard floor ripping his shirt and bandages on his back to shreds. Then there was really no way to get away when Tiger looped the chain around his hands, pulled them over his head and stepped on his hands with his enormous boot. John cried out in pain, which only made him chuckle.

“All yours, sir.”

Moriarty straddled him and it was a strange sight to see him and his expensive suit on the dirty floor. The taser’s light reappeared under his nose.

“Behave now, or I  _ will _ shock you into compliance.”

“Fuck off,” John growled.

He tried to squirm away, buck him off, but he was weak, so weak. Moriarty tased him again anyway.

“You’re a stubborn one,” he commented as John spasmed under him uncontrollably. It was too much. The human body was not meant to be electroshocked at such high voltage so often. John hoped his jerking muscles would be enough to push Moriarty off, or at least disgust him enough that he would stop, give up, play some other sick game some other time… but he wasn't and John had no strength left. It was useless and they both knew it.

Moriarty chuckled and left his taser to the side so he had both hands free to tease, pinch and scrape his nails all over his exposed chest, before undoing his trousers and oh God, he wasn't going to stop there, was he? Why? Why was this happening to him?

“Get off. Stop. Please. Don't do this.”

Moriarty smiled at him and cupped his face in a sick mockery of a lover's touch.

“But you'll like it. I promise.”

John shook his head.

“No. No. I don't-”

Moriarty struck him across the cheek he had been caressing softly just seconds prior. His body was so numb that it hardly even registered anyway. Only a mild sting. No pain at all compared to the agony of his back.

“Don't…” he babbled.

Moriarty struck him again, harder this time. Hard enough that his head jerked to the side. Moriarty's fingers dug cruelly in the skin of his chin as he forced him to look back into the bottomless pits of his eyes. So dark, as if there was no soul behind them to give them color and life.

“You will like it,” he seethed.

John knew he wouldn't but didn't dare protest anymore. What was the point anyway? More pain. Always more pain. Moriarty smiled at his compliance. No, not compliance. John didn't want this. He didn't. He felt tears prickle his eyes at his helplessness and the first one rolled down his temple when Moriarty bared him naked save for the shredded shirt trapped beneath him.

“Uhmm, yes. Much better. How long has it been, Johnny boy?”

A rhetorical question since he didn't even wait before sliding a finger down the crack of his ass and thrusting it in, pushing against the ring of muscles that still fought against the invasion when the rest of his body couldn't. John whimpered when the finger pushed in deeper.

“That long?”

He thrust another finger, too soon and with no lubrication whatsoever. It hurt, yet he knew it was only going to get worse.

“Aren't I nice? Preparing you when you've been such a misbehaving pet. Mhm? What's that?”

John's mind was a blank. He wasn't even sure he was the one being addressed at first but the way he was looking down at him while he fingerfucked him dry, he was waiting for an answer, becoming rougher with every second he didn't.

“Y-yes,” he managed.

“And what do you say to daddy, Johnny boy?” sounding pleased.

It had been the right answer, but now he wanted more? What?

“What do you say?” he insisted and crooked his fingers, making John gasp in pain.

And john knew. He didn't want to. You had to have a particularly sick mind to make the person you were raping thank them for it. Buy Moriarty shoved another finger in and Tiger pressed more of his weight on his hands, grinding his fingers into the concrete floor, and he couldn't take the pain anymore. He just wanted it to stop.

“Th- Thank you.”

Moriarty stopped abusing his hole and Tiger backed off.

“Give me his chain, dear, and bring back something to soothe our poor little pet.”

John lay there, so vulnerable, naked and splayed out. Moriarty hadn't moved away, he could feel him still, the fabric of his suit and the warmth of his body, but he wasn't touching him anymore. John kept his eyes screwed shut. He didn't want to look at the other man, or even see himself in such a state. Feeling everything was bad enough. He didn't want those images seared into his mind.

He flinched when Tiger's footfalls returned, came too close. His fingers curled reflexively, seeking the protection of his palms.

“No, I think I'll keep it in hand. You can just go sit by the door and enjoy the show if you want.”

John bit his lip to keep quiet. He had hoped, of course he had. But Moriarty wasn't going to let him be. He hadn't changed his mind after all. Something cold and viscous dripped over the crack of his arse, his anus. Lubricant. John, who had already been biting his bottom lip, managed not to sigh at the immediate relief, both physical and emotional. He'd been so scared Moriarty would just fuck him dry until he bled. He knew the consequences he would have to deal with then, especially without receiving medical treatment… He shouldn't be feeling relief right now, not when he was about to be raped. He hated himself. He hated Moriarty. He hated Sherlock. This was his fault. His fault. 

“Shush, pet,” Moriarty crooned with a gentle tug of his collar.

His finger was slicked this time as it penetrated him. One, then two. Gentle. Buttering him up with lube. Preparing him properly this time. It was still an invasion, but a bearable one. John could make this easier on himself. He just had to be nice to Moriarty. Obey him. Give him what he wanted and he wouldn't hurt so much.

“Oh yes, Johnny boy. Be good to daddy.”

He sounded ecstatic and next thing John knew, the fingers were gone and the hard press of an erect cock, hot and moist, was pressed against him, nudging his hole.

No. No, it was too soon. He couldn't- He didn't want this. He shook his head, but words wouldn't come out anymore, only tears. He tried to move away but the collar kept him in place.

“Shh, you'll be fine, pet. You'll see.”

His cock pushed harder, then broached him, forced the muscles apart to accommodate him. Moriarty had loosened him some, but he felt too large and he didn't wait, just continued pushing inside him, tearing him apart. John couldn't breath, yet thought he was screaming, or maybe the screaming was just happening inside his head because how could this be happening to him? It was a nightmare. He wished it was a nightmare, but there was too much pain, it was too real.

He opened his mouth to protest, to scream, to beg, but again, there was no sound. Moriarty crooned and he paused, his cock buried inside him. It felt… weird, full… No, stretched. So it was a bit uncomfortable but didn't hurt now per say. Not like the whip.

“See. Good, right?”

John didn't want this, though.

“Look at me, pet.”

John shook his head and knew to expect the sharp tug of the collar this time, the metal digging into his skin. It jostled his whole body, made him painfully aware of where and how they were joined. He felt sick. If at least he could pretend this wasn't happening, or that it was with someone else… but no. Moriarty wasn't even going to let him have that.

“Look,” his cock slid out. “At,” he trust in, hard enough to wrench a whine out of him. “Me!”

God help him, but he did. He wanted this over, but he had no doubt Moriarty could make it last for an excruciatingly long time if he wanted to.

“Good boy. Keep your eyes on me now, John. Always on me.”

John did and Moriarty resumed a gentle pace instead of his punishing one. Obey. No pain. So he just lay there, gasping for air, looking in his rapist's general direction, because what Moriarty hadn't realized, maybe because he didn't know, had never experienced it, was that John couldn't really see him through his tears. Everything was blurry, deformed beyond recognition.

But the constant thrust he couldn't ignore. In, out. Coming and retreating. Like the tides of the sea. You couldn't stop such a force of nature. It tilted him and with the change in angle came an explosions of sensations.

No, no, no.

John came back to himself as another wave of pleasure rolled over him.

“Yes. You like that, don't you, pet?” Moriarty said then moaned as he thrust inside him again.

He didn't. It wasn't him. It was his body. His prostate. That was all. It was physiological. He didn't… like this. He didn’t. Once more, John dug far into his mind for safety, dug deeper to cut himself off from what was happening to his body. Not him. Just his body. 

But it wasn't that easy. Not with Moriarty fucking him, making those disgusting sounds. Not while he was aroused despite himself. Not when the chain clinked in his ears and the cold metal collar dug into his skin. Not when his back was on fire and bleeding through his shirt.

The only silver lining, if you could even call it that, was that the pace had changed, was becoming erratic. With a final, deep thrust, Moriarty groaned and warmth spilled into him, then out, soon followed by a now limp cock. 

It was over.

Only it wasn't. Moriarty got to his feet, tucking himself in by the sound of his zipper, but then his footsteps came closer instead of retreating. He squatted next to him and John could feel his eyes on him but he refused to meet them. The chain dropped next to his head, making him flinch. Thankfully, he didn't say anything, didn't touch him again. Maybe he'd gotten tired of gauding him. Maybe now he'd stop his games and leave him in peace.

John waited until Moriarty left, then Tiger, then for the door to close. Only then did he roll over to his side to relieve his injured back. He curled in on himself to keep warm, but couldn't muster the energy to do anything else. He blinked his tears away, but more kept coming. Then the shivers started and wouldn't stop either. His whole body out of his control. He closed his eyes, but it was his own mind now that was out to torture him as it fed image after image of what had just happened. Even what he hadn't seen. It somehow filled in the blanks.

So John kept his eyes open instead, even if they burned from crying for so long and he did his level best not to think, not to feel. It was like meditating, right? That was good. It helped him not feel his sticky, burning back, or the scrapes around his neck, or the literal pain in his ass. He almost wished for the numbness of the taser to return full force, but that would leave him helpless again. And bad things happened to you when you were helpless.

So he stared at the wall in front of him, the one away from the door, but didn't really see it. He'd be hard pressed to tell anyone the colour, or if it had cracks, or stains, if it was made of cement or bricks… his mind was a blank, just like he wanted it. And If his mind was blank, what use did he have for a body? He let it shiver, and cool, and bleed and ooze… it wasn't his problem anymore.

 


	5. Listen to Many, Speak to a Few

The door opened. Even John, as much as he was trying to become nothing, couldn't ignore the loud scrape of metal on stone. He didn't turn around though. He wasn't even sure he could if he wanted to, and he didn't want to. What if it was  _ him _ again?  So he waited, eyes wide open and breaths quickening. He realized he was on the verge of a panic attack, like the ones he used to have after being discharged. He knew what to do to prevent it, but he couldn't move and could no sooner slow his breaths than stop a train headed his way at full speed with his bare hands.

So he waited…

The door creaked shut and the footsteps inched closer, paused, walked around him. So light, and the perfume was feminine. He relaxed minutely and was not surprised to see a young woman kneel in front of him, pale, wide eyed, and with a large leather bag at her side. Another med student he'd bet. It should have comforted him, and he was relieved it wasn't his tormentor, but…

John closed his eyes. It only meant it wasn't over. Never would be. _He_ was going to put him together once more, then unravel him. He would do it again and again. Bring in another innocent into his twisted games and make him play. He couldn't. He couldn't do it anymore.

Honestly, he'd rather die.

Moriarty won. The game had always been rigged anyway, creating new rules all the time to tip the balance in his favour.

The new Alex tried to talk to him, asked his name, skirted around what had happened to him, but John didn't answer. He didn't want to bond with her only to have her do or suffer despicable acts afterwards. He wouldn't repeat his mistakes if he could help it.

New-Alex sighed, then opened her bag. She cut off his shirt with great care, never even touching him. That done, she returned towards the door and came back with a steaming bassin of water in which she fished out an oversized sponge. She bathed him, muttering apologies now and then, getting rid of all the blood and grime and semen and tears. The soiled water slowly made its way to a grate in the middle of the room he hadn't even noticed up to now.

Practical.

New-Alex was patient and manipulated him with care so she could wash him entirely, then heal his injuries, then dress him in warm soft clothes that felt like an armour. He should feel guilty for putting  her through it, for not helping, for not even looking at her, but he was so tired and soon, his eyes closed of their own volition.

But not for long, because his mind seized the opportunity to bombard him with home made videos of his ordeal, giving him the worse nightmare he had ever had. John woke up, soaked in sweat and short of breath. He stared at the wall again. It was familiar, at least. There was comfort in that and it helped him push his nightmare away. 

With the shadows, the walls almost looked like the Afghan desert, flat, with outcrops here and there, and then those massive mountains in the distance that always seemed so far away no matter how much they moved towards them. He'd felt safer there, in the middle of a bloody warzone. How ridiculous. He'd been shot in that desolate place and almost died, yet he'd rather be back there because he had his brothers in arms to protect him, and there was always a place to hide. They'd dug a hole once, as a lark, right into the sandy earth. It had been difficult because the sides kept collapsing and the hole became wider and wider, but the deeper they dug, the cooler it got, until finally they could all stand in it. They pulled a tent over the top, made an exit and dubbed it the bunker. Of course, they got their heads bitten off the very next day and were ordered to fill up the hole again, but that's where John was now as he stared at the desert-wall: buried in the cool sand where it was safe because no one knew about it anymore, only him. Safe because the sand was always shifting, covering the ugliness he didn't want to see, the walls collapsing when memories pressed against them, and there was always more sand to be had. You can't win against sand. It's light enough to fly everywhere, compact enough to block your progress, sneaky enough to jam your gun or make you blind… everyone always complained about the sand, but John was quite happy with his mind sandcastle.

Of course, it didn't take much to topple it over. Yet, John had retreated so far into it that he didn't understand immediately when he drifted back up to the surface, to reality, pulled forth by an unyielding force.

Water. Ice cold water.

“About time,” Moriarty snapped. “It's quite vexing. It wasn't that bad.”

John froze where he sat, his fight or flight instinct completely shot down. His eyes wide as he met the dark gaze levelled at him. John couldn't deal with this again so he began retreating to the safety of his mind, thinking hard of sand, mountains of sand, ever-shifting sand…

“Oh no you don't,” Moriarty snapped with a sharp tug of his collar. “Sherlock is coming to the rescue. You want to see him, right? You wanted your one last miracle? Well, you're going to get it.”

Moriarty didn't seem to expect an answer so John followed his line of sight to a door and stared at that door, trying to ignore the soft creak of the leather shoes as his tormentor rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, or the overpowering smell of the pool’s chloride.

It was, in fact, the same pool. Their pool. It was almost like living a flashback.

_ Gottle o’ geer, gottle o’ geer… _

When the doors burst open and Sherlock stepped in, he wondered if this was indeed reality or if he'd somehow trapped himself in a flashback in his mind sandcastle.

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed as he approached.

His voice was just different enough, as was his appearance, that John knew for sure this was reality. Sherlock was truly alive. He was surprised he didn't want to hurt him anymore, but he couldn't muster that emotion, or any other he realised, except fear. Fear was powerful. Fear stood beside him in shiny Italian leather shoes.

“What did you do to him?”

Sherlock sounded horrified for some reason. John was sure he looked fine from the outside, no worse than anyone who spent any amount of time with a violent, sadistic psychopath. In fact, he'd bet Sherlock looked worse than he did with his disheveled clothes and haggard look.

The tug at his neck forced him to look up at Moriarty again. The collar was not half as embarrassing as it was at first. He never thought he would get used to such a thing.

“I trained him well, didn't I? It was easier than I thought. You should have done it years ago.”

“I will end you,” Sherlock hissed back, which was quite a feat since there wasn't a single S in all that threat.

“Back to that, are we? Don't be dull. You didn't last time, and you haven't during your time out. Face it: you can't. You're powerless against me.”

John thought he had a point there, but as if to prove him wrong, a loud bang echoed throughout the pool and filled it with smoke. The red lasers danced around in search of their target but it was useless endeavour and they soon disappeared one after another. The whole operation was messy and the timing was a bit off. John doubted this was Moriarty's doing, so it had to be Sherlock's.

That said, Moriarty was suddenly tackled to the ground, pulling John with him as he held onto his chain. John fell flat on his face, resisting the pull until the chain got free. John coughed as he choked against the smoke and his collar, then he crawled towards a corner in the hopes everyone would just forget about him. Out of sight, out of mind.

He huddled there, cold once more because of the way Moriarty had thrown water at him… or had he just dipped him in the pool. John shook his head. It didn't matter. He would never know.

What did matter were the shouts and gunshots ringing in the vast building. He huddled further into the corner he had found, melting in the shadows, in the wall itself. There were more shouts of “Clear!” ringing all around and he knew that meant this operation was soon over, although he couldn't quite grasp who was winning. The smoke shifted and the air cleared up, allowing him to breathe in deeply again while people were dashing about and more were coming in. Not one taking notice of him. As he thought, he had become invisible, which was perfect because he could still hear Moriarty's voice bouncing off the walls.

“Don't think you've won, Sherlock! This is just a minor setback. I didn't think you'd call  _ friends.” _

He said the word like it was a cancer, and again, he was not so far from the truth. Sherlock had been his own personal tumour. He grew and grew until there was only room for Sherlock, so when it was removed, it took all that was good with him. Speaking of the tumour, he was fast approaching and kneeled in front of him.

“John?”

John's mind went blank but be fought the pull of the quicksand. Even if he didn't want to hurt Sherlock anymore, he didn't know what he might do under the influence of the sand. He had no idea how he had arrived here at the pool after all, what had happened to him since he had stared at the desert-wall…

“John?”

He didn't want to hurt him, but he didn't want to talk to him either. He saw the moment Sherlock gave up. He raised a hand instead, reaching for him… no, the collar. John flinched, expecting the tug to make him submit.

“Sherlock.”

A warning. The voice familiar. Lestrade. John couldn't look at him, but felt his face burn with shame and now he wanted to dig his way into the sand again with the full blast of a grenade.

He was so busy not looking at anyone that he startled when someone else touched him. He wished they'd stop and just leave him alone. But no, it was just a blanket. The baby blue folds fell around him like a waterfall and camouflaged him in the blue hues of the pool. He pulled it tight around him. He was invisible once more.

“Dr Watson?”

A face hovered in front of him. Dark, concerned, pretty, with a halo of hair like an angel. Yet, he didn't like her. Never had.

“Can you walk?”

He hadn't a clue and why would he have to anyway. He was fine right here. They could leave, he wasn't going anywhere. Moriarty wasn't here. John couldn't see him nor hear him, so this is where he was staying. It was safe here.

Donovan sighed and as she backed away, he realized there were even more people milling around him. The new ones were all men, tall and muscular like Tiger. Too many. He'd never be able to fight all of them off. 

John panicked and scrambled away, but he had nowhere to go and they caught him easily and held him still and he couldn't do this again, not again, not with everyone watching, he couldn't… But as usual he couldn't fight back, they were too strong and he felt himself weaken when he was sure he hadn't been tased.  _ Needle _ , the doctor part of his brain provided because it was the only part of him still capable of processing the real world. Not for long though, because Morpheus pulled him into his strong embrace.

 

Whispers woke him up. Slithered their way into his slumbering unconsciousness with promises of suffering. So he kept his eyes closed but could immediately note this was different from the last times he woke up. He wasn't tied up for one, but that could just be a trap. There was no pain, but that could come in one swift instant when he least expected it. There was no collar weighing on his neck… no collar, no chain either… that gave him pause. But mostly, there was no Moriarty: not his cruel voice, not his crotchety fingers or squeaky shoes or expensive cologne. In fact, it smelled of bleach and blood and death, which might have been frightening if it wasn't so very familiar. A hospital.

His drugged memories slid back into place: the pool, episode two.  John couldn't quite believe it had happened despite the evidence so he opened his eyes, just to be sure and there was solid proof sanding right there, a few feet away: Sherlock's belstaff and Lestrade's trench coat, so very familiar, their hems leaning towards one another as they whispered. A wave of shame induced nausea and fury hit him full force with equal measure, but his weak stomach won and John barely had time to lean over to the side of his bed to vomit all over the floor. Funny. He couldn't remember eating lately.

John fell back in his mattress. He felt better, but he had also gained unwanted attention. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned his head away when he saw the two men approaching. He couldn't look at them. When they called his name, he closed his eyes. He knew they would want to talk, but he couldn't. He just couldn't.

Eventually, they left.

He couldn't keep this up. At some point, he would have to snap out of it. He knew it, yet he couldn't take that step towards sanity simply because he wasn't sure it was worth it.

A doctor came to talk to him, explained things he already knew because of course he had diagnosed himself. He wasn't delusional, or was convinced he wasn't in any case, but he was… stuck, for lack of a better word. So here he was being assessed, passing a psych eval for the second time in his life. He could actually cheat if he wanted to. He hoped they realised that. Not that he would, though. He didn't really care and maybe it was better if they locked him up, stuffed him full of pills and threw away the key so he could be forgotten. He wouldn't have to think anymore. No more shame. No more simmering anger just asking to be released. Who knew who he might lash out at? Because he would snap at some point. He was sure of it.

“You have to talk, Dr Watson. You know this.”

Yes, he did. But he couldn't. The words were stuck and every time he opened his mouth, even if it was to tell his doctors and unwanted visitors to piss of and leave him alone, the words would claw at his throat on their way up, ripping it apart before he could get them out and they would sink back inside, deeper and deeper.

When was the last time he spoke? It was… Oh God… it was when he had begged Moriarty not to… 

_...don't. _

John panicked, gasping in breathes that didn't give him enough oxygen. He had to leave, flee the confines of his hospital bed and the room closing in around him. But… no… no, that wasn't the last time. It was much worse than that. His last words…

_ Thank you. _

His last words were to thank Moriarty for raping him. 

John's head swam as bile rose. He needed some fresh air. He needed to get out, get away. From here, from everyone, from everything.

He was running before he even realized it. He didn't remember how he got past the doctor. His legs felt like jelly, his back itched and burned, the bandages ripping as he twisted and scrambled around a corner to vanish through a door. He took stairs after stairs. Up was safe. Moriarty always took him down. Down the stairs, down on his knees, down on the floor.

_ Nonono _ .

John shook his head. Why couldn't he get it out of his head. He had been through worse. He had been through war, been shot, been tortured… Why couldn't he get past this the same way? It was nothing, right? It didn't even hurt anymore. It was over and done with. He should be able to forget, put it aside and resume his life. Why didn't it work? Why did it keep plaguing his mind day and night? Why did it fill him with such fear that he couldn't think rationally any more?

“John?”

Lestrade took careful steps in his direction, approaching him like a rabbid dog about to bite. No wonder he was cautious after what John had done to him. He shouldn't be here. John shook his head. Lestrade had to leave. He tried to tell him, but the words sank their claws into his vocal chords and he was left to gape like a dead fish. The words wouldn't come out. He couldn't even tell him how sorry he was.

“It's okay. I won't hurt you.”

Lestrade held up both hands, showing empty palms as he shuffled closer, ducking his head because he was so tall, until he was close enough that he could kneel next to him and be at eye level. John couldn't fathom why he was going through so much trouble for him of all people. He should hate him.

“You're in the hospital. It's safe here. We're all worried about you. We just want you to get better.”

Why? Why would he? Why wasn't he afraid of him? And why the fuck did he look like he  _ cared _ ?

A sound broke through John's parched lips. It was only a sob, but it was a sound. Fractured and broken, but it was something. It was new, it was a change in the right direction. And then, there was another, and another, and before he knew it, he was crying like a baby and he couldn't stop. When he realized sound was not trapped within him anymore, John apologized.

“'m sorry. So sorry. I didn't want to. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” Lestrade replied every time he broke out in another babble of apologies.

Lestrade was touching him. His hand a heavy weight on his shoulder, but it didn't hurt or threaten. He wasn't mocking him for breaking down, or angry at what he'd done.

“It's okay.”

The tears ran out eventually. He hated crying and not only because he'd been brought up to believe it wasn't “manly”. He'd never cried so much in his life before. Tears of pain, shame and humiliation. But these were different: tears to wash away the past, start anew.

Lestrade took his coat off to put it around his shoulders. It wasn't a waterfall to hide in. More like an armour made of promises that everything would be alright. Then, slowly, Lestrade helped him back up to his feet and back to his room.

The doctor was still there so he apologized to him too. John was getting good at this, although that was probably not something to be proud of since it meant he had done things he needed to apologize for. The doctor seemed surprised and asked to talk to Lestrade outside. John knew he was going to ask what had happened and he had no intention of hearing another's point of view on his acting crazy, so he didn't protest for being left out of alone.

“John?”

Not alone. Sherlock appeared out of nowhere. John had no idea if he had been in his room the whole time or if he slipped passed the doctor and Lestrade. Knowing Sherlock, both sounded plausible. Sherlock walked up to his bed as if he owned the place and John flinched, not because he was afraid he would hurt him, not physically at least, but his betrayal still hurt like a slap to the face when he looked at him. Sherlock stared back at him the way he'd stared at nothing on the bloody sidewalk.

“I came back as soon as I heard.”

What? Did he expect praise? Thanks? John gulped and feared he was losing his words again because his throat felt tighter and tighter.

“I had to disappear back then. I had no choice. It was that or he was going to kill you all,” Sherlock explained.

John listened to his explanations on the off chance that if he filled his heart and mind with new memories of how exactly Sherlock had betrayed him, then maybe memories of his humiliation at the hands of Moriarty would be squeezed out and disappear.

Apparently, Sherlock was done talking and looked expectantly at him. For what? John wasn't sure, but he couldn't forgive.

“Molly,” he croaked out.

_ Betrayal,  _ it meant. If John could believe Sherlock's pleading look, he understood.

 


	6. Love Comforteth Like Sunshine After Rain

Sherlock didn't come back after their tense, one-sided conversation, nor did anyone else visit except for Lestrade. John still didn't understand why. They had never been friends. Not really. Work acquaintances at best. But he came, talked to him and got him to talk back until John felt comfortable around him, enough to smile when he walked into the room and laugh when he said something funny. Lestrade was the one to inform him he was cleared to leave the hospital and that he had offered to take care of him until he could manage on his own.

John still didn't understand why. He felt like crying at the news, but that well had dried up. He wished he could stay in the hospital where he had been so comfortable and safe these past few days. But he was a doctor, he understood why it wasn't possible: his injuries were healing nicely and he was not a threat to himself or others, except maybe Sherlock. There was nothing more they could do for him and they needed the bed.

But why in heaven’s name would Lestrade volunteer to be his caregiver? Why not Sherlock? He would be the most logical choice since they had at least been living together before… before this whole mess.

“Why?” he finally asked since he couldn't for the life of him figure it out.

Lestrade fidgeted, looked at him, then away, then back at him, more resolute this time.

“Your doc thinks I help. I don't understand it myself, but I trust his opinion. He's brought you this far, and you are doing better… just not with anyone else yet.”

“You don't have to. I'm sure I'll be fine on my own.”

John was the one to look away this time, because he still had an amber of shame that rekindled whenever he looked at Lestrade. The tiniest details could give him flashes of him assaulting the poor detective in that alleyway: his hand that he had squeezed, his shirt which was the same colour as the one he'd been wearing that day, the glint of his belt buckle… 

“I want to. It's the least I can do,” Lestrade insisted.

John puzzled over his answer. Why should Lestrade do anything for him? He didn't owe him anything, quite the contrary in fact.

“After what I did to you…” John trailed off,  knowing he had to discuss it with him before he got himself into a situation out of his control. Only, he couldn't find the right words.

“Or what I did to you.” Lestrade countered. “On top of everything else. That day… I didn't understand what was going on. I didn't even know you'd gone missing. No one did. And that… I didn't know what to do and I… Oh God,” Lestrade blurted out as he ran a shaking hand through his silver hair. “I can't believe I…”

Lestrade was out of words too, but even if he couldn't finish his sentence, John understood what he meant, having been through the exact same scenario himself with Alex.

“Physiological,” John said flatly.

But he couldn't part with his dirty little secret. The one Moriarty had wrenched out of him with the taser, that John had enjoyed sucking off Lestrade. He would always be ashamed by it and could even now feel his cheeks burning.

Lestrade nodded.

“Yeah. That's what the shrink said. Still…”

John wasn't about to tell him something as asinine as to forget it, because if it were that easy, he would have done it himself.

“Still doesn't mean you have to take care of me,” John insisted.

“Well, the alternative is Sherlock and I don't see that working out. I have enough homicides on my desk as it is.”

John huffed. Trust Lestrade to make a joke right now, but he was right. He would rather be an imposition on Lestrade than go back to Sherlock. Never again.

 

As it happened, Lestrade was the easiest person to live with. He worked all day, most days, leaving him the peace and quiet of his flat where John took his time processing his shame and humiliation one bit at a time. No one was there to hover over him or rush him. Lestrade's flat had become his island of peace.

The fear had run its course now too, but that left more room for his anger to take root and grow. So if John didn't startle at doors slamming anymore, he instead had unexpected urges to lash out and he didn't know how to get rid of them yet. Lestrade suggested a shrink, but that hadn't gone so well the last time he had tried.  His flatmate was always there to lend an ear though, whenever he needed it. Whether over the phone when he was working, or at night after a nightmare. John couldn't understand how he'd ever managed to cope without him before.

Lestrade helped him with his injuries too. At least those on his back because John couldn't do it on his own. When the other man had seen his back for the first time, his reflection in the mirror had looked furious, and he'd become silent and foreboding for a whole day. They never talked during these sessions and it became an unpleasant, but necessary, routine to go through. Unpleasant for Lestrade who had to deal with the sight of his mangled back, and unpleasant for John who had to bare them for him to see. It was better than the alternative, though. John couldn't let a stranger get that close to him, behind him, and touch him. He shuddered just at the thought of it. However, he was glad he never flinched at Lestrade's touch, knowing that would hurt his feelings.

Because his new flatmate was surprisingly perceptive and sensitive, more that he could have imagined from their previous meeting on crime scenes where he was always so dour and grumpy.

John knew better now, but it only made his deed seem all the worse. He still had regular nightmares about it. Of him and Lestrade, Alex and Moriarty, of whips and chain and pain… He would wake up screaming in the middle of the night, falling from his bed as he tried to untangle himself from the sheets, which would more often than not wake up his flatmate too. He would appear with a glass of water in his hand and sleep in his eyes, then sit next to him and lay a steadying hand on him, grounding him until he fell back to sleep.

John was overstaying his welcome. He did what he could around the flat to help out. Cleaning and cooking mostly because he didn't have to leave his safe haven for it. Later, he ventured out for groceries too. To the shop around the corner first, then further and further away until the crowds felt more safe than suffocating. Except when he thought he saw Moriarty out of the corner of his eye. It was never him, of course, just an expensive suit or dark, slicked back hair, the squeak of leather shoes or a whiff of his sickening cologne. The panic attacks that ensued were embarrassing, but he was getting better at getting them under control.

 

“I got a job,” he told Lestrade one day at dinner.

“What? Really? That's great!” His eyes crinkled. He was sincere and was truly happy for him. This is why he had waited until they met up for dinner instead of sending him a text. “Where is it? When are you starting?”

“It's a bit out of the way but I can get there easily enough by tube. It's full time too.”

“Sounds perfect!”

“So I think I should move out, get a place of my own. I've stayed longer than I really should have, but I liked it here. Honestly, I don't think I would have come so far without you, so I wanted to say thank you for all you've done. You're a true friend.”

_ And I'm sorry. _

Lestrade opened his mouth a few times, seemingly at a loss for word. Was this news really such a shock to him? They'd always known this arrangement was temporary. Or was he shocked to learn he considered him a friend?

“And yet you still call me Lestrade.”

John stopped pushing around the good in his plate. He'd gotten better a home cooking since he moved in with Lestrade, but he had lost his appetite upon broaching the subject of his leaving. Yet, Lestrade often used humour as a defense mechanism.

“It suits you,” he said with a shrug.

In truth he hadn't been able to call him Greg despite the many offers because it seemed too intimate, and anything of the sort in regards to the other man made him ill at ease because of what he'd done to him. Not that he'd ever said as much, but he didn't think Lestrade would understand and he didn't want to bring up the subject of that day again.

“You can stay if you want,” Lestrade said nonchalantly. “I'm not here most of the time anyway and you're a great flatmate. You've done more for me in two months than my ex-wife did in ten years.”

Lestrade froze with his fork mid-air and a horrified expression on his face as if he'd suddenly been struck by lightning.

“Oh my God! John, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it like that, like you're my… Oh jeez. Fuck. I'm sorry.”

John hadn't taken offence, and now he was laughing at his friend's babbling. It had been funny, despite the dark undertones, but that was copper's humour for you, and it matched his own.

“It's fine. I know you didn't. Like I said, I like it here, but I really don't want to be more of a burden on you.”

“You're not. I actually like coming home now after a day at the Yard. Good food, good company. Before, I was always alone and ordered takeout when I could be bothered.”

“And when you couldn't?”

“Old takeout leftovers? Bit sad, right?”

John huffed. Lestrade was almost worse than Sherlock and he was doing those same puppy dog eyes too to guilt-trip him.

“But I wake you up and… well, you haven't brought anyone here in two months and I can't help but think it's because of me.”

Because he was there, taking up space and time. A complication. Because of what he'd done to him. Maybe he fucked him up. Figuratively as well as literally. John had wondered about it but had not dared ask Lestrade about it.

Lestrade shrugged.

“I don't meet a lot of people except for dead bodies.”

John chuckled, relief washing over him. That made sense. Long days with only dead people, colleagues he's known for years and murderers.

“And you tell me off for giggling at crime scenes.”

“Cop humour. That's allowed. Mandatory even. So… what do you say?”

John mulled it over. His immediate instinct was to shout “yes!”, but he couldn't be that selfish, not with Lestrade. The advantages of such an arrangement for him were many and too good to pass up, but what about Lestrade? What did he have to gain? Good food and company, he'd said. Was that enough?

“I want flatmate privileges. I was a guest up to now.”

“Okay… what are those? I've never had a flatmate before to be honest.”

“I get to pay rent and tell you off for leaving your wet towel on the floor.”

“Hey! I never did that.”

“No, you wouldn't do that with a  _ guest _ in your home, but it's different with a flatmate, trust me. Soon, I'll be finding your dirty socks on the sofa.”

Lestrade chuckled and extended a hand.

“i seriously doubt it, but deal.”

Relieved, John shook his hand. He hadn't wanted to overstay his welcome but even he could see Lestrade looked better, had filled out a bit and John always made sure he always had a clean ironed shirt to put on in the morning. Maybe he was the wife after all.

That night, they toasted to being flatmates, for good, and all was good. Better than good, even when John began his job at the surgery and had less time to devote to chores around the house. Lestrade waved off his concerns and simply told him to take it easy, which John did for the next three months, becoming day by day the man he'd once been.

“You're not working today?” Lestrade asked one day, finding him still in his pajamas in the kitchen.

“No. Filled in for a colleague on top of my shift last week so I have a few days off. Why?”

“Well, there's an interesting case and Sherlock asked me if I could take you along.”

John frowned. He followed the news circus around Sherlock: how he was pardoned, cleared even, with Moriarty thankfully locked up tight… but anger still rose in him at the thought of the betrayal of who he had once considered his best friend. Just the mention of his name was like salt to his wound.

“You should see him, John, he's like a kicked puppy. It's getting difficult not to pat his head whenever I see him,” Lestrade insisted. “Besides, I thought no it'll do you good too.”

John was not convinced and it must have shown on his face.

“Trust me?”

Damnit.  _ That _ he couldn't turn down. Lestrade could ask him to leap off a cliff and he'd probably do it, trusting that he would so whoever catch him at the last minute or have stuffed a parachute in his pockets.

“Fine, but don't expect me to be nice.”

“Never,” Lestrade mocked with a smug smile he was having trouble concealing.

 

Lestrade seemed happy to be taking out on a case, his good mood so infectious, it made London seem less grey than usual. Maybe they should do something together when they both had some free time. Like a flatmate-date.

When they arrive on the crime scene, John had a moment of utter panic at seeing so many familiar faces all at once. People he had seen at the pool but not since. But Lestrade put a steadying hand on his arm and nobody looked at him funny. Donovan just nodded at him, and Anderson made a weird face that might have been his way of smiling. He returned the greetings in kind, then froze at the familiar shape hovering over a bloody body on the ground.

Sherlock.

The blood in his veins seemed to turn to ice as the other man turned around, already spouting off insults and deductions with apparent boredom. John finally snapped and punched him right in the nose. He hadn't planned it. He had known he would snap one day and all it took was Sherlock's smug air of superiority. In hindsight, he should have guessed as much.

To his credit, Sherlock shook off the blow as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened despite the evidence of his bloody nose.

“Hello, John. I'm glad you could come today.”

Maybe Sherlock had the right of it because John was momentarily unsure of how to proceed after beating his former friend bloody in front of a good portion of Scotland Yard. Pretending nothing extraordinary had taken place seemed like a good idea. His anger had burned out anyway, burned by the energy that had propelled his fist like a rocket. He squeezed back Lestrade's grip on his arm which had gone from comforting to restraining. He dropped his hand just as John gave a derisive snort.

“I'm here for the dead body, not you.”

He skirted around Sherlock to examine the body for himself and ignored the sniggers behind him that had to come from Donovan and Anderson. He couldn't find anything of note about the corpse that Sherlock hadn't already deduced to death, loudly and in detail as if afraid John might miss his brilliance. It was brilliant, if he had the be honest. He finally looked at Sherlock who went straight and very still all of a sudden.

Well, John wasn't going to strike his ego. Maybe it was him always exclaiming about how bloody brilliant he was that had put in that gigantic brain of his the idea that he had a right to lie, deceive and toss him aside whenever he wanted, as if he's worth less than the dirt under his shoes.

Sherlocks shoulders drooped just a fraction when he didn't say anything, but he invited him along to pursue a lead anyway. He was about to decline when Lestrade nudged him, rather sharply, towards Sherlock. He was reluctant, sure, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't just a teeny bit excited at the prospect too, so he went along. If Sherlock turned out to be too insufferable, John could always turn around and head home for a nice cup of tea.

In the cab, they sit as they always have with a gap between them that felt like an insurmountable chasm, then, as the day progressed, he could just make out there was still a bridge there, invisible like the one in the Indiana Jones movie and which would require a leap of faith in order to cross, to get passed this awkwardness or their friendship would perish for good. Maybe that was why he had been so reluctant to meet with Sherlock again, certain to would sign the death certificate of their friendship.

“How have you been?” Sherlock asked when they stopped for lunch.

For him. Sherlock still didn't eat during a case apparently. It was nice to know that some things never changed.

“Better,” he said truthfully. “How's the resurrection going?”

“Slowly. It's an administrative nightmare.”

John smirked. It served him right, especially since Mycroft could probably have cleared the situation with a snap of his fingers if he was so inclined to.

Conversation between them became easier if still a bit stilted as they tried skirting around some topics, but they worked as well as they ever did together, as if no time at all had passed.

They caught their murderer, of course and John called Lestrade to come pick him up where Sherlock had beaten the living shit out of the guy who had come at John with a knife. That had been new. Sherlock usually took down their opponent swiftly, with an economy of movements and violence that he had always admired. He had never displayed such rage before. It was equal parts worrying and fascinating, so John mentally noted to ask Lestrade about it. He couldn't believe it had only been to save him.

Something he shouldn't have needed in the first place, but John had frozen for a moment too long when he saw the glint of the blade, flashes of another knife digging  into his cheek as a madman threatened to cut out his eyelids. John saw that scar every morning and had to be careful when he shaved. That, like many other things, he couldn't simply ignore and hope that in time, he would forget. Worse was that this had been the least of the pains he'd received… 

When Sherlock had disposed of their attacker and come to check on him, John had flinched at his proximity and his bloody hands and things were awkward between them again. One step forward, two steps back. It would take a while yet before they salvaged their friendship, but he'd try.

At least, he could guilt trip him into going to Scotland Yard to fill in the paperwork Lestrade would need to officially close the case, which was no small victory because Sherlock usually equated “necessary” with “boring”. Not wrong, but it was also called being a responsible adult so John didn't feel the slightest bit of shame at manipulating him. 

“Want to go celebrate at Angelo's?” Sherlock asked as they exited Scotland Yard.

“Maybe some other time,” John replied, wanting to go back to his Isle of Peace as soon as possible after such a day, but had to add some measure of reassurance after seeing Sherlock whole body slump in defeat. “But call me directly for the next case instead of using Lestrade as a carrier pigeon, alright?”

There was a skip in Sherlock's steps as he hailed a cab, leaving him on the steps as he tried to decide between taking the tube or walking home. 

“John! Wait up!” Lestrade called from behind.

John waited for him to catch his breath as he panted, bent over double. He must have run all the way from his office.

“You- You sure you're alright?”

“You ran all the way here to ask me that? You do know I have a phone, right?”

“It's just… you looked a bit pale when we met up earlier. Did everything go okay with Sherlock?”

John shrugged.

“It'll take time. But that wasn't…” he bit his lip. “I had a bit of an episode back there,” he admitted. 

“Want me to come back with you? Sally can process the perp for me. You can ask her anything after she saw Sherlock get some payback. She’s been snickering all day. “

John wasn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed by the sergeant's behaviour.

“I'll be fine. See you tonight? I'll prepare that chicken hotpot you like.”

Lestrade nodded and his smile broke out like the sun behind clouds. For a fleeing moment, John wanted to lean in so he could bask in his warmth. He shook his head when he realized what he'd been about to do, hoping Lestrade hadn't noticed his strange behaviour. It was possible he was getting too dependant on him, and vowed to be more careful in the future.

“Later,” he answered lamely.

  
  



	7. The Web of our Life is of a Mingled Yarn, Good and ill Together

All told, after a good shower, John was happy with his day. He'd gone on a case, helping Lestrade in the process and his friendship with Sherlock was on the mend. Now that he had let go of that anger, he felt like a weight had lifted off his shoulders and even found himself humming in the kitchen as he puttered about making dinner.

Time well spent, he decided, when his flatmate patted his full belly with a contented sigh.

“I have a free day tomorrow and I know you do too,” Lestrade announced. “Fancy doing something?”

John's eyebrows shot up in surprise as he'd had that very same thought that morning.

“Or not,” Lestrade relented, misreading his surprise. “Maybe you had something planned already?”

John shook his head, amused by the misunderstanding. 

“No, that's not it. I was just telling myself the same this morning, but I didn't expect us to get the opportunity so soon. Have something in mind?”

“Honestly, I was thinking of leaving London. It gets to be too much after a while.”

John nodded. That sounded like a great idea.

“I could do with a change of scenery.”

“Brighton isn't too far by car. I feel like drinking a beer by the sea and relax. The weather is supposed to be nice tomorrow but too cold for tourists so it shouldn't be crowded.”

“I went there sometimes as a kid,” John reminisced. “I'd like that.”

 

They stood facing the sea, breathing in lungfuls of clean, fresh air, which scrubbed his insides clean with its salty bite. John felt like a new man. They grinned at each other and had soon borrowed two lounging chairs, dragging them by the water's edge so they could dip their feet in the cold water as they enjoyed a pint, all cosied up in their coats because of the wind. It was perfect. It was times like these that John was reminded why it was worth going through all the struggles life threw at him.

Lestrade seemed to be in the same state of mind. Eyes closed and face relaxed as the sun warmed him up. He looked just about like he was melting into the chair. John smiled fondly at him, wondering what he had done to deserve such a friend. He wished he could show him how thankful he was, how important he was to him. Lestrade's hand was right there, a few inches from his, poking out of his coat's sleeve as it caught the golden light, and John knew it was weird but he wanted to touch it, so that maybe some of the glowing warmth in his chest would pass on to him, so Lestrade could know exactly how deeply he felt about him.

John could brush against it, even by accident, but then it would only be a selfish act on his part. Selfish and wrong, because he had already forced himself on Lestrade once before. That reminder made whatever warm feeling he has been harbouring feel sordid and dirty.

John shuddered, trying to shake off the slimy tentacles of shame and followed his friend's example: relax and close his eyes to let the sun embrace him with its warm arms instead.

The day was over too soon. The dark of night chasing them off the beach and back to their car. 

John was pretty sure he had never been this relaxed in his life. He even dozed off in the car at some point and Lestrade had teased him for snoring louder than the engine.

“I feel like I just recharged my batteries,” Lestrade told him as he unlocked the door to their flat, echoing his thoughts perfectly.

“Yeah, it was really nice,” John replied as he hung his coat in the entrance, taking Lestrade's to hang it next to his.

So he was surprised to find Lestrade still hovering behind him when he turned around.

“Alright?” John asked, wondering if maybe the other man had had too much sun after all. His nose was just a bit sunburned, so it wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

Greg nodded and pinched his lips, not long but enough that John took notice of them, then found himself leaning towards his friend once more, as if Lestrade has his own gravitational field that he kept getting caught in. Only Lestrade was leaning towards him too and all of a sudden, they were kissing, although he couldn't say who initiated it.

It didn't come as a shock. John had wanted this for a while if he thought back on it, but also feared it and loathed it in equal measures. What was more surprising was that he was enjoying it so much and that Lestrade was on board. It felt good, and right… until it didn't. Because he had been pushed back against the coat rack and felt crowded by all the coats, trapped by the dozen limp arms around him. He broke off the kiss when it got too difficult to breathe, to get in air and he panicked. John knew, in the back of his mind, that it was fine, that he was in good hands, that he was safe… but he couldn't stop his body barreling blindly towards a full blown panic attack. He almost couldn't hear Lestrade's voice over the roar in his ears.

“Oh God! I'm sorry, John. John! Breathe slowly, slowly…” 

To his credit, he had the patience of a saint to talk him through his panic, until he can take control of his breathing once more and realize what a fool her made of himself when they'd had such a wonderful day up to that point. His whole face had to be a beacon of humiliation given the heat he could feel high in his cheeks.

“I'm sorry,” Lestrade repeated as John realized he was still holding onto his hand like a lifeline. “I thought… I'm sorry, I shouldn't have.”

“Stop,” John ordered, trying to speak with confidence he didn't feel. “It's not your fault. I've wanted you for a while.”

There it was, his dirty little secret finally coming out.

“You did?”

Lestrade sounded stupidly smug about that piece of information.

“Trying to wring compliments out of me?”

Lestrade huffed then helped him up, because John har apparently fallen on his ass at some point, and helped him to the sofa. John would have liked to tell him off, that he wasn't some fragile little thing, but his knees did feel like jelly. They sat closer on the sofa than usual. John was so relieved he hadn't driven Lestrade off with his stupid reaction that he didn't notice how anxious he looked until he spoke.

“So it was okay?”

“It was perfect. I'm sorry I freaked out… Wait…” The whole day flashed before him up to the point Lestrade had asked him to the beach. “ Was today a date?”

Lestrade grinned.

“It depends it you want it to be one.”

“Sneaky. I don't usually kiss in the first date, I'll have you know, but it  _ was _ a really nice date. I'm sorry I ruined it.”

“I can wait.”

“Might take a while. I mean, if a kiss sends me spinning…”

“It's fine. We'll take it slow as a snail if that's what you need.”

“And if I can't- I mean not now, but later, if I can't… perform?”

John winced at the inadequate formulation but any time he tried using cruder words, they took on the mocking tones of his own personal boogeyman.

“That's fine too. We'll just be flatmates who go on mmdates and kiss now and then. That's a thing, right? I care about you, John. Nothing is going to make me change my mind, and I've tried, believe me. I thought I was being a creep at first, you know, after what happened. But your doc insisted I was helping so I visited you every day, and then I got to really know you and… well, here we are.”

The words lifted John's spirits. They were just the right words, heartfelt, those anyone would hope to hear one day directed at them, yet thought existed only in books and corny movies. He didn't know what to reply himself. Ironic. He was supposed be the writer, but Lestrade was always the one who found the right words to put a smile on his face.

Their relationship shifted, ever so slowly, by little touches here and there until John could cuddle and kiss without another's touch feeling overwhelming or invasive. Sherlock was not happy with this new development. He deduced it within two minutes of seeing them together on the next crime scene a couple of weeks later. Not that they were advertising it, quite the contrary in fact, but it was doomed from the start to even try hiding something from Sherlock Holmes.

“Him? Really?” Sherlock sniped right there over a too ripe corpse.

“I didn't know you cared so little for your nose,” John hissed back with a glance at the forensic team who are watching them with undisguised interest, as if they were a bloody soap opera. It was one thing to insult his choice in a romantic partner, but quite another to hold such disdain for a man like Lestrade who had never been anything but kind and helpful.

He was just glad Lestrade had gone off to speak to an officer so he wouldn't hear whatever idiocy Sherlock was sure to sprout off any second now.

“He said he'd take care of you until you were better. I can't help but think-”

“Don't,” John warned with a raised finger. “If anyone took advantage of the other in this mess, it's me. You don't  _ know _ Sherlock . You don't know anything. You  _ weren't there _ . Too busy playing dead. You know what? It's none of your business. Don’t you have a murderer to sniff out?”

“I’m just worried for you,” Sherlock muttered as he branched out his search for clues into the parking lot.

Done with the body already because apparently, he could hold an argument and deduce a crime scene at the same time. It was infuriating but so very Sherlock. And maybe he really was worried and not just sticking his large nose where it didn't belong for the sake of it. He watched as the one and only consulting detective wandered the parking lot cordoned off by the yellow tape, reading tired tracks and random pieces of junk as if they were spelled in plain English. John only saw a parking lot.

His thoughts strayed instead towards  _ his _ detective and he found himself smiling at the mere thought of that morning at breakfast when they'd laughed over a particularly bad pun in the newspaper's headline. They had a stupidly easy relationship compared to the one he had with Sherlock.

However, John wanted to take things further with Lestrade… although, he should really start calling him Greg now that he thought about it. John still had a libido, as much as he sometimes wished he didn't, and simply giving himself time to get over what had happened when he'd been kidnapped was not working. Even when he wanked, he still had unwanted flashes plague his mind. He needed new memories to cover the old, to buy them deep deep into his subconscious until they were forgotten. He had to power through. It had been months now, and he was at a standstill. Power through… easier said than done.

 

“Hey! I was getting worried,” Lestrade said when he finally made it to their flat. John was knackered but still giddy from the rooftop chase with Sherlock. “Caught him then?”

“Him and his twin brother. Don't worry, we left the with Dimmock for the night, but you should have seen the look on Sherlock’s face. You know how he's always saying it isn't twins. It was priceless.”

Lestrade smiled fondly and the expression struck John as so beautiful he decided this was the perfect moment to keep to his resolution and power through. He took off his coat and threw it in the general direction of the sofa, stalking up to Lestrade with resolute steps. He pulled him down to his level by his half-undone tie and kissed him, deepening the kiss at the first opportunity. Once Lestrade had gotten over his surprise, his hands holding him tight against him, John pushed him towards the kitchen counter and began grinding against him. He was soon rewarded by a low groan and an unmistakable stiffness against him.

But just as suddenly, Lestrade broke off the kiss and leaned back to look down at him with a speculative look. Ah… checking he wasn't drugged or drunk. John  _ had _ tried that once, but it had been a dismal failure which had ended in… well, not what he was going for. Lestrade opened his mouth, looking about ready to argue so John lay a finger over his lips.

“If you're about to ask me if I'm sure, I'll just go take a cold shower and neither of us is going to be happy about that.”

“Prat,” was his only reply, the words mumbled against his finger.

Lestrade's hands moved over to his back and down to his ass, squeezing gently. John closed his eyes and hummed at the sensations. It was all fine. He grinded against him once more. Yes, it was all good.

“Greg,” he said quietly, a bit shy about using his name for the first time.

Greg froze for a second then leaned over to whisper in his ear.

“Bedroom.”

John nodded. Anything that wasn't a dirty alley or a basement floor was good. No. No, he wasn't going there. Not now. John shook away those memories and kissed Greg with renewed vigor as they stumbled clumsily to the closest bedroom. Greg's as it turned out. They had already shed a fair part of their clothes, leaving them only in their trousers by the time they made it to the bed. John paused. The bed, as innocuous as it looked with its pale green cover, appeared just the slightest bit foreboding.

No. He wanted this. He really did. Nothing short of the bed setting itself on fire would stop him now.

John pushed Greg down on the bed, watching curiously as he lay there waiting when realization hit him: Greg was letting him lead and go at his pace. Desire flared anew. John wanted him even more now. He got rid of his own trousers and pants in one fell swoop, his cock jutting out proudly like the fucking Union Jack.

Greg licked his lips. God, that was hot. Then he came to sit back at the bed's edge and pulled him closer, nuzzling his swift belly and peppering kisses over his skin while his hands travelled back to his ass, one on each cheek. Greg's lips dipped lower, his tongue coming out to play now, licking his cock, teasing the head before he stretched his mouth over it.

John's mind went wonderfully blank. All he could do was feel. Greg's mouth, warm, wet and sucking on his cock like some bloody sex-god. Greg.

Then, his blinders came crashing down despite the pleasure, and suddenly he was back in the alley, only it was Greg on his knees this time.

Greg must have picked up on how his breathing hitched, because he leaned back, his cock slipping out of his mouth.

“Breathe, John. It's alright. I've got you. Come here,” he said softly, tugging him down and John willingly went along, lying next to him. “You remember the safe word?”

“Anderson,” John muttered, feeling his erection droop even more at the mention of the weasel-faced man.

They had found it funny at the he took me to choose his name as a safe word, but it was a lot Les amusing when they were in the bedroom with a hard-on.

“We'll have to think about changing it though,” he added.

Greg chuckled and his hands began to rub soothing circular motions on his chest. His thumb grazed a nipple by accident and a jolt of pleasure ran through him, making him groan, rekindling his desire.

“Oh. That's new,” Greg murmured against his ear, using a voice so filthy it made his knees go weak.

And he wasn't stopping there either. He teased him with both fingers and tongue until John was a writhing mess begging for the hard cock he could feel rubbing against his thigh.

“Please,” John moaned, not caring how desperate he sounded.

“Uhm?”

“Greg. Please.”

“Only because you asked so nicely, love,” he purred and handed him lube and a condom. 

The had talked about this beforehand, even when it seemed improbable John would ever get passed his blockage, and decided it might be better John start by topping so as to avoid any red flags. Greg confessed he didn't care much either way, but John had a clear preference for being the top.

However, he knew it had been a long time for Greg. A very long time, partly because of him, so John made sure to prepare him with as much care and devotion as he deserved. Slowly, methodically, lovingly, until it was now Greg's turn to beg and arch into the air for more. It was all the encouragement John needed. His own prepping took thirty seconds, tops. Watching Greg open for him had kept him aroused to the point of distraction.

John shifted, placing himself behind Greg with his arse up in the air for him, and slowly, ever so slowly, he pushed his cock into Greg's puckered hole. They groaned in unison, then Greg encouraged him to move again, go faster, deeper. His requests turning to full on orders when he thought John wasn't going at it hard enough.

Well. Who would have guessed the gentle Detective Inspector was such a wild card in the sack? But… it helped. John wasn't afraid to hurt Greg or worried that he didn't like it, that he didn't really want it. So he didn't hesitate to go along and thrust his hips harder and faster until he could feel the build up in Greg's body. He would be climaxing soon, so John watched him, eyes wide, as he threw his head back and growled his name. John's hips bucked, slapping skin against skin and he came so hard it almost felt like he'd gone blind, but he could still feel Greg come around him, pulsing around his cock as he was still buried deep within him.

Gasping, John pulled out, carefully, and disposed of his condom before he allowed himself to drop bonelessly next to Greg who looked as blissed out on his pillow as John could hope him to be.

“I think we can call that a success,” John mumbled and kissed his goofy grin.

“Uhmm. Love you.”

John smiled and kissed him again.

“You know that doesn't count after sex. Tell me again in the morning. But for what it's worth: I love you too.”

 


End file.
